Asylum
by shywr1ter
Summary: AU, S1 style. Intrepid reporter on the hunt for Eyes Only... now complete.
1. One

**DISCLAIMER: Dark Angel borrowed, no profits realized. **

**A/N: This is something that popped up when I was working on a sequel to CJ and a million other things. As often happens, this one took over and became more insistent than the rest. You'll see right away it's an AU, and spins away from S1 canon just around the kiss in "Meow..."**

**A special thanks to Mari83, who made me rethink some things.**

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_**Asylum**_

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from the Seattle Post-Intelligencer: September 14, 2024

_**Staying Strong in the Struggle**_

_By Thomas Butler_

_P-I News Staff_

_It's been seven years since Seattle saw the first broadcast of the man known simply as "Eyes Only," a journalist turned underground partisan in the fight to rid the local, regional and federal governments of the corruption that sprang up like weeds in the wake of ill-gotten legislation following the Pulse. For nearly six years he continued the fight, anonymously directing scores of those who volunteered for the cause and who, with their charismatic leader, stirred the imaginations and the hope of the millions who waited for his broadcasts. Ultimately, he was able to turn around much of the crime and graft that had been so long ignored by those in power who at the very least allowed it to happen._

_But the cost was high: in the last months of 2022, Eyes Only was finally unmasked, and the world learned that journalist Logan Cale was Eyes Only. There is no one in the Northwest territories who hasn't heard it all by now: along the way, Cale himself was a victim of the criminals he brought to justice. Before Edgar Sonrisa was killed and his crimes fully revealed, Cale was shot by one of Sonrisa's men and left a paraplegic. Yet Eyes Only's work barely paused until he was forced above-ground in a sting operation he masterminded that netted the last corrupt players in city hall, finally bringing Seattle's city government back to one serving the people, not merely their masters. The personal cost for Logan Cale again, however, was high: this time, the hacker's true identity was revealed._

_Cale continued Eyes Only for several months afterward, even bringing back the Pacific Free Press as a free, weekly newspaper in addition to his hacks. But in mid-2023, in a farewell broadcast, the first he'd ever done lasting over sixty seconds, he passed on the work he'd begun to his lieutenants and bid Seattle good-bye._

_When he left, Logan Cale left more questions in his wake than answers. Why did he do it? What was the genesis of Eyes Only: one, jarring event, or the chronic, continual conditions around him? What drove Cale to put his personal wealth and his safety on the line, time after time, for countless people whom he didn't know and would never meet? What was the driving force behind the man who many believe saved Seattle from complete and utter lawlessness? _

_And once so committed, what allowed him to leave it all behind and leave the city he'd worked so hard to save? Some say it was because of threats ... some believe it was because he'd had it, was spent and exhausted and had nothing left to give just as more of the needy, destitute and desperate sought his help, even demanded his money, his skills ... some even say that, without the thrill of the secret life he led, he wanted to restart his life again in anonymity, with new adventures, excitement and intrigue... _

_They'd all be wrong..._


	2. Two

**DISCLAIMER: Dark Angel borrowed; as always, no profits realized. **

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_**Asylum**_

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August 23, 2024

Tom Butler really hadn't been surprised by what he'd found, once he arrived in the lake district and saw the pastoral, rural setting of northern Indiana where his research – and his story – had led him. It merely strengthened his faith that _his_ guess was right, despite it being the minority view. He'd always believed that when Eyes Only fled Seattle, it wasn't as much to run from those who would do him harm, but from all it had been and all it had done to him, all the chaos and pain and destruction he'd seen. If he'd wanted to hide, he could have more easily disappeared into a large city, full of others on the run, a population in flux ... here, he was the rare newcomer among people whose families had been in the area for generations. If he'd _wanted_ to hide, he was better than most at knowing how to change appearances, to create papers and false identities – to avoid being found. Yet from all indications, Logan Cale remained virtually unchanged, physically, from his days when he engineered the ouster of the corrupt governments around him ... or, rather, "Robert Eastman" looked just like Cale did, before began using a different name...

Before heading on into town Butler circled around it, over the largely deserted, dusty roads, getting an eyeful of the area he'd seen before only in maps and aerial photos. Despite arriving in the vicinity that morning, he did not get into town until late afternoon, checking in at the town's one hotel, making certain he'd left enough time to grab dinner at the small cafe on the main street in town. He'd keep his ears open to get the sense of the community and learn anything offered that way. Both before and after his brief meal, he walked along the town streets with his camera slung over his shoulder, not asking questions but being seen, appearing interested but not overly so. The best way to hide in a possibly suspicious, rural community was to be overt, act as if he had nothing to hide. That ... and not be in too much of a hurry...

When a friendly local spoke to him he responded, each time careful not to volunteer so much that he seemed to be anxious to establish who he was and why he was there, but here and there dropping just a hint or two of the college student he was pretending to be – a college ID in the window of his wallet, opened to pay for his supper, a tattered notebook in his pocket with the seal of the University of the Pacific, where he'd actually taken some classes. No hurry; plenty of time. He was so close now he would not ruin his chances. He returned to his hotel room near sunset as the townspeople returned to their homes. Anything else would have been noteworthy, this first day in town...

The next morning he went back to the same café where he'd eaten dinner, ordering coffee and toast – safe, normal. He'd worn nondescript, utility clothing, a tee shirt and canvas pants, much as he'd seen on surveying crews or power company workers over the years. Maybe unnecessary, but if anyone was to question his motives, and anyone aware of the true identity of their neighbor enough to tip Cale off that a suspicious stranger was in town, all his preparation to get this far might be for naught. Besides, it was an easy enough ruse – and it might make the difference in getting access to – and his story about – the reclusive, publicity-shy Logan Cale.

So for his first full day in town, Butler planned to use his heavy camera often, affecting the character he'd painted for himself, a grad student earning summer funds by photographing the roadways and existing structures for the utility company as it scouted opportunities for fresh cable or new power lines to be installed. This "grad student" would further spend his time looking for interesting subjects and rustic beauty, ostensibly a photography and fine arts major looking to prepare his masters degree show ... a perfect way to watch someone's home, or car, or comings and goings from far away, he'd figured. Hiding in plain sight...

From early morning through his lunch break, Tom strolled around one part of the town, doing just that; by lunch a few of the more curious had struck up conversations with him. Word appeared to have gotten around quickly, because by lunch time at the diner he received a few more friendly nods, a new smile or two. Knowing that the town was not large enough to support his excuse for long, Butler felt some relief that it had happened so quickly, and the townspeople less suspicious here than they were out west. This way, he might step up his schedule just a little...

After lunch, he left the immediacy of the town on the bicycle he'd strapped to his car, again congratulating himself on the last minute decision to bring it along, much as a genuine grad student would. He pedaled out along the dirt and gravel road that had wound in from the state highway toward the main street and on past, the one that continued beyond pastures and corn fields, making several stops for photos and scribbled notes. His path gradually took him nearer one of the small lakes in this chain of lakes and channels stretching across the northern part of the state, left centuries ago by receding glaciers...

_...and left behind by all but the year-round residents, _he mused,_ deserted by those who once had the means for a summer homes here, but who eventually gave them up in the post-Pulse economy, clueless how to live off the land or to barter with their neighbors to keep things going. Affluent enough to hold onto their property through the early years, when they believed things would get better soon, many eventually sold off what they could, others abandoned their places outright, unable to find or afford the gas for the weekend jaunt from the city and needing to pool all available funds into one, permanent home, to avoid losing even that._

Butler considered the balance he'd already seen in this place. A self-sufficient community reminiscent of how it must have been a century before – individuals depending on each other, but within their own community's boundaries, making do with the talents and resources neighbors could share, apparently keeping an eye out for each other and for the town. How fitting this all seemed then to Butler, if his hunch was correct: the man who had ridden technology into the eyes and ears of Seattle and beyond had escaped from civilization, freed not only from the vastness of the government controls he'd fought for so long, but from that same technology which had served his ends so well, and had found a much smaller world where everyone seemed to share the same concern for his neighbors as had Eyes Only, himself...

Butler timed his afternoon so he could ride along the far side of the lake he'd sought before heading back to town, seeing across the water the comfortable, neat homes and cottages standing amid others long vacant, all rimming the lakefront. Again getting off his bike, up away from the lake's edge and moving close to the overgrown shrubs and banks of trees, he focused intently on one, well-tended cottage across the water, never dropping his gaze although his movements would appear as casual as they had since he'd arrived.

Unless his information had been wrong and his confirming research misguided, _this_ was the place to which Eyes Only had fled, an antithesis of the cool, modern building where he owned a penthouse. Butler felt a wild sense of accomplishment, felt his pulse race: _this_ was the place where Cale had come, when he'd finally passed on his work to others ... and this would be the place that _he_, Tom Butler, would get the answers, all of them, that he and half the Pacific Coast still craved. From all he'd seen so far, Butler knew he might not yet have found much about what had driven him -- but he started to suspect he'd found what kept Logan Cale here for so long...

It was sheer discipline that forced Tom to get back on his bicycle now and head back to town for an early dinner – after establishing a pattern of meals at the café over the twenty four hours since he'd arrived, he'd do nothing but raise alarms if he didn't have dinner there tonight. Besides, he'd use the time to reconsider and regroup, weigh the pros and cons of rushing back to Cale's cottage this evening...

... it was over meatloaf and peas that he finally thought to ask himself, _what would **Eyes Only** do?_

And in only another moment, trying not to bolt down the rest of his food, he mentally planned out his map for his approach that evening, how close to come to the cottage, when to approach on foot ... and how long to wait before confronting the man himself...

Fifty minutes later he was again within a mile of the cottage, and as the sun came lower over the birches and pines around him, Butler stepped off his bike and hid it, with his backpack, behind some bushes near a state road marker he knew he could find again, even in the dark if need be, with his costly new night vision goggles he now pulled out and the night scope on his camera.

Pausing momentarily before setting off on foot, Butler weighed the possibilities ahead and thought through what his responses might be, to win Cale over. He felt certain he'd find his target, and was ready to roll with whatever he found – and however close he came. He'd spent months, all told, in research and investigation to get to this point, and whatever he reaped now, so be it ... no matter what, Cale was and remained a journalist – if anyone would understand why he was here and why the story had to be told, Cale would...

_Patience... patience..._ Tom reminded himself as walked closer, again aware of how quiet it was this far out, suspecting that only two or three cabins within a mile radius actually were inhabited at the moment. The silence made him walk more cautiously, stepping over onto the low, grassy shoulder to avoid the noise of the crunching gravel on the road.

The nearer he came, the slower he moved, as Butler suddenly felt a mixture of adrenalin rush and butterflies. Never had a story meant as much to him, personally; never had he put so much time into finding a subject and prepping to approach him. He drew a deep breath to steady himself ... and to prepare for a wait. Maybe there would be nothing this evening, or maybe he'd see something when the lights came on inside. No rush, he promised himself yet again ... and he eased as close as he dared, finding a spot not too far from the home's northwest corner, its west-facing deck allowing its residents a beautiful view of the water ... He couldn't see around into the west side, where the home overlooked the view through large, sliding glass doors, and no lights yet were on inside to allow him to see within though the generous side windows. Maybe with the lights, this view could be a good one. If not, maybe he could try getting closer, with the dark...

He made himself comfortable, crouching down amid the bushes and undergrowth. Just day two of his mission, he reminded himself. Plenty of time...

_But it was only forty minutes..._

Butler caught his breath as he heard the sound of a sliding door as it rolled back ... and as simply as that, his target came out on the deck, into the low, golden, rays of the slowly setting sun...

Despite his faith all along that his guesswork had been correct, Butler was almost as breathless as he was elated to see he _had_ been right: the man moving smoothly out toward the deck's edge in his wheelchair was none other than Eyes Only himself ... "Robert Eastman" ... a/k/a Logan Cale...

He really _hadn't_ gone to any effort to change his appearance, just as Butler had surmised. _Of course_, Tom figured, _it might be hard to make the wheelchair go away – but there were many other changes possible and Cale hadn't bothered with any. Well, the name ... but that was more recognizable than his face, anyway..._

And the face, at the moment, further intriguing the reporter, was a picture of idyllic contentment, appearing to share the unhurried, peaceful air of the people Tom had seen in the town. Coming alongside an oversized, wooden Adirondack chair, Cale stretched over to drop a leather bound folio onto its far, broad arm, pushed the attached ottoman out of the way, and slipped easily over and onto its graceful, wide slats.

Suddenly breaking the spell he'd been under, and silently lifting his camera to use its powerful zoom lens for a close-up view, Tom watched in fascination as Cale pulled himself back and up into the chair, then leaned back to look out at the lake, everything about him seeming as calm and content as anyone Butler had ever seen. In the evening quiet, Cale was serene in his solitude, amid the gentle thrum of cicadas and echoing birdsong, looking as much a part of this place as he had been the city amid the technology and the desperation and the wealthy of Seattle – maybe more so. Riveted now by the sight of his unwitting role model, Butler stared as the man took in the view for another couple minutes and finally lifted the leather folio, opened it, and drew out a pen to begin writing, even that an exercise done in calm, measured movement...

He noted details – how Cale wrote a line or two, hesitated, wrote a little more, then lifted his eyes back to the water, thinking ... for a man who did so much by coming into the homes of millions though his television broadcasts to publicize the crimes he'd uncovered, Cale was exceedingly publicity shy. Butler hadn't even found a dozen recent photos of him from Seattle, and only two brief video clips, so he was no expert on how the man looked then. But the demeanor change still had to be remarkable. Eyes Only had done amazing things in his years on the job. It couldn't have all been accomplished by someone as settled and kicked back as he was now...

So spellbound by the scene, Tom hadn't heard the door again, and almost jumped a little as into this solitary, isolated scene a lithe, feminine form in sweater and soft slacks appeared, coming up to Cale's shoulder and placing two mugs of coffee on a small table beside the chair. With that, she leaned down to circle her arms around the seated form, nuzzling him warmly and speaking in his ear. Butler couldn't have begun to make out the words at this distance, even if he hadn't been so thrown by the unexpected appearance, but the look of love and sheer happiness on Cale's face told the tale, Butler knew..._Here_ was the explanation for Eyes Only's disappearance, for his escape to a distant, quiet place; _here_ was the answer to every question about the man: Eyes Only had found a happy, normal life, with a stunning woman who was as much in love with him as he was, with her ...

Borne of a comfortable familiarity, the couple completed a domestic ballet clearly well practiced between them: as Cale put down the folio, he slipped an arm under his knees to lift them, and the woman drew the ottoman back up against the chair to fit it into place with one hand, making the deck chair into a lounge chair, while gently scooping Cale's legs up and onto its curved surface in one smooth motion before slipping in alongside him. Reaching to grab the coffee mugs before sitting back, and half turning to give Cale his, the woman then nestled back against the sturdy chest and the waiting arm that circled her close, both of them seeming then to melt comfortably together into the wide chair, not speaking, sipping at their coffee... and both wearing expressions Butler didn't know if he'd ever seen before – certainly not in the city, among the driven and focused of his world.

With a sudden rush of guilt for intruding on this most private of moments, Butler lowered the lens for a moment, knowing what he'd just witnessed. _Whatever else might have happened to Logan Cale that led to his break with Eyes Only, and that determined when and how he did so, it was all secondary to his life now,_ Butler was certain – Logan Cale had found peace, not here so much, as with the woman in his arms. The demons that must have driven Eyes Only had been soothed. So those rumors were true, then, too, that "eligible society bachelor Cale" wasn't as eligible as the society pages had wanted him to be. The stories he'd heard about Logan Cale being seen out and around Seattle with a striking, coltish brunette at local food stalls or in a nearby park, mostly from before he was outed, were not just rumor. From the looks he saw between them, and the comfort they exuded, it appeared that their relationship was a deep, committed one of many months duration ...

Lifting his lens again to watch the couple as they lay together intertwined, admiring the spectacular sunset across the water, Tom felt, for the first time, some ambivalence in his mission: who was more deserving, here? The people of Washington and Oregon and California, who clamored for more information about the man who had done so much and given so much, for them all? Or the man, himself, who'd given his time, his health, his money, over and over and over again?

...if what he was asking even came close to upsetting any of what he saw before him, Tom began to suspect he wouldn't be able to do it...

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A/N: Don't let the name "Robert Eastman" throw you. This story is still intended as following canon only as far as _Meow_; there's a reason that a name partially borrowed from S2 was used. With luck, I'll find a subtle way to make that known down the road!

S


	3. Three

**DISCLAIMER: Dark Angel borrowed; as always, no profits realized. **

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_**Asylum**_

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August 24, 2024

He couldn't sleep.

Tom had managed to stay motionless in the overgrown bushes and grasses until his target had gone back inside, most of that time overlooking the couple as they shared a leisurely after-dinner coffee on the deck of "Eyes Only's snuggle shack," as he'd found himself thinking of it around 3:20 a.m.

His editor had warned him he'd become obsessed with the story and soon after, obsessed with Logan Cale as well as Eyes Only, and Tom called him crazy. Now, at 6:50 a.m. and finally conceding to himself he would not get any sleep, he started to wonder if his editor had a point. It wasn't obsession like a stalker's obsession; he knew Carter hadn't meant that. But he was an experienced reporter – and investigative journalist – and he knew better than to let his own feelings color his story. He'd done articles on serial killers and their victims, sick children and noble healers, all manner of the sympathetic and the repulsive, and had not succumbed to his own, personal reactions to the individuals or their actions. He was capable of doing his job well – several awards backed him up on that – and he had been fully convinced he could do as professional a job on this story as any other.

Now he wasn't so sure, in the light of day – a day that followed a night of wildly swinging reactions to what he'd found, and what he should report to the world.

At first, he'd been surprised – and probably a bit jealous – that Logan Cale looked so happy and content, clearly living a life in which he thrived, with someone he loved and who loved him. Initially, Butler's reaction was that the world was still so dark and mean at times, that anyone who could find such happiness, especially someone who had given so much and suffered so much for others, should be left to enjoy it in peace.

But then the idea started to nettle him that someone so talented, someone who had saved so many, with so many connections and resources, would simply chuck it all just to go cuddle with his honey. Sure, he deserved _some_ happiness, but did he have to just stop _everything_, altogether? It wasn't like it was his injury that had slowed him down; hell, that had happened at least four years before he quit. Once Eyes Only had started, didn't he _owe_ it to Seattle and the west coast to keep working? What was the man doing with his considerable talents _here?_

_There should be some happy medium_, Tom fought with his competing reactions, _so that he could get some kind of a break from things but not just run away from everything ... once you take on a responsibility like being 'the only free voice left in the city" – many would say much past that – can you just pass it off to your flunkies and take a permanent holiday? _

6:55 a.m., and Tom sat on the side of his bed, shoulders bowed in his weary realization. The mere fact that he had such strong and opposing reactions to what he'd found told him he was too close to this story. He still believed with everything in him that it needed to be told – but he just might not be the one to finish it. With a deep breath he looked up and out to the street below, just starting to show signs of life in the early morning light. _You've come this far, he reasoned with himself. Let things go for today, just hang out and see if anything else comes along, then go talk to him. _

_But that's not what **he** would do,_ he heard himself poke.

"Oh, yeah," he muttered out loud to himself. "You've done a great job at anticipating what he'd do ... that's why you're so freaked about his dropping everything to just come here and write poetry."

_Or maybe you're just freaked out 'cos you might just be wrong, maybe he **did** leave because of threats or his health, but still made it out here and in spite of everything has managed to make himself a good life. So, yeah, go ahead and take that away from him cos you're still pissed that he left..._

Tom stood, growled to himself and muttered again as he headed toward the shower to get his day going. "First order of business, stop thinking you know what happened and _investigate_ – after all, that's supposed to be what you _do_. Give it another day or two and then go see him with whatever you have then." He threw on the water and kept mumbling as he started soaking himself down. "Anything less is amateur."

A shower, a shave, and by the time Butler headed over to the diner for his coffee at 7:00, he felt he'd gotten his priorities in a bit better shape and was taking himself in hand, so much so he ordered himself a real breakfast of eggs with his toast and coffee. In another thirty minutes he was out wandering around another portion of the town with his camera, making sure that he continued his ruse, despite his temptation to let his thoughts run away with him.

_Maybe you're not as obsessed as a stalker would be, but isn't this the sort of thing they do, slithering around to get the goods on someone?_ As he walked along the road paralleling the main street, near an attractive park, Tom let himself analyze the role of reporters, what they did. _In the end, we decide who has less of a right to their privacy – or their personal lives – than others do_, he conceded. _But there are those persons of interest to the public, and by virtue of their actions **ask** for their lives to be revealed ... and Cale would have done exactly as I'm doing now, stalking a subject, watching covertly – even tracking down those who tried to run from their pasts, or tried to hide from their acts – or, in Logan Cale's case, from his deeds – in his quest for a story or a biography, a retrospective or exposé ... _

Tom eased back into analyzing why this had been a more personal investigation, why his reaction with what he'd found about Cale hit him harder than it had with his other subjects. It wasn't the first time he'd reported about someone he admired – was it?

_Maybe the first time you've pursued a story about a personal hero ... _he finally prodded. He'd always been a follower of Logan Cale's writing, and had been swept away by the audacity and bravery of Eyes Only – and learning they were one in the same moved him, even after he'd become an experienced journalist in his own right. And since starting his research for the story, the more that he learned about this unusual man, this rare, guerrilla philanthropist, the more he'd felt amazed ... humbled ... _anything but neutral and distant_, he admitted to himself ...

As he walked, Butler came to an area of small, pleasant homes still well kept, with a small school at the end of the block. An elementary school, he could tell, with the playground equipment on this side – and, surprising him, the sounds of kids laughing and playing outside, even though it was Saturday. Curious, he walked on to see three clusters of three or four children, each with an adult, out in the yard as they worked to plant tree seedlings, happily digging in the dirt and enjoying their time together. Butler found himself smiling slowly, even wondering if this place were for real...

"Hi..."

Tom turned suddenly to see that a pretty, petite woman had come up beside him as he watched, smiling and friendly on the surface, but clearly there with the same look worn by kids' caretakers everywhere, the wariness that someone unknown was nearing their children. _Even here_, he thought sadly. "Hey," he smiled. "That's some work crew."

The woman returned his smile with a nod, looking back to the kids. "Work crew, landscape architects..." she agreed. "This is a long-standing tradition at this school, the first graders returning after their first summer vacation get together to vote on a couple trees they'd like the school to have. They go out and buy the trees, then plant them." Her smile widened. "It was determined long ago that the planning, the choices and the trip to buy the trees work just fine during the week. But the planting– with the digging and the watering – makes a lot more sense to do on Saturday so we can just hose them off and send them home."

"I'll bet." Tom laughed.

"You're the grad student visiting us for a while," she tried.

Tom nodded, and conceded honestly, "word gets around, I've noticed."

The woman shrugged. "Well, it's hard to blend in such a small town, and I think ever since the Pulse everyone is still just a bit more cautious. People here are generally happy to have visitors or new folks moving into town, as long as they're willing to respect those who are here and the community we all share." She shrugged. "This is a beautiful area, with a lot of nice people. The only fear anyone has around here is that someone might come along and try to take advantage of their neighbors' good nature."

Tom nodded, and looked back to the children. Tipping his head toward them, he asked, "Are you a teacher here?"

"Principal." She smiled, and offered a hand. "Sandra Jacobson."

"Tom Butler."

"Nice to meet you, Tom Butler," she grinned, and as they dropped their hands, added, "I'd better go help. Nice talking with you – and enjoy your stay."

"I will, thanks," he called as she went on to speak first to one group, then the second. As the principal went on to the third group, the teacher with them turned to talk with Sandra – and, as she stood, Butler realized that it was the same woman he'd seen the night before with Cale...

He shook himself to keep walking, to go in a direction that would allow a natural gaze her way, but he worked very hard not to stare, or to do anything to catch her – or the vigilant principal's – attention. So she was a teacher here? Or a parent? Maybe a volunteer. _Whichever, the kids know her and she's supervising one of the groups, just as the other adults are ..._

_She's a community fixture? A native? Or the Seattle girl I thought she was last night? And either way, if she's a part of this community now ... what has Logan Cale done to find his own way to fit in here?_

As much as he wanted to watch, to get some pictures of her to send back to Seattle in the hope that his sources could identify her, it wasn't worth risking his eventual meeting with Cale. He'd _seen_ how the man felt about her and anything along the lines Butler considered would probably just anger him. _Not worth the risk ... _he breathed to himself as he walked past the school and on down the street...

As he had the day before, he returned to the café for lunch. Especially on a Saturday, the place was almost predictable in its cosy intimacy, the sounds of the locals engaging in familiar banter even more lively and affable with the diners in less of a hurry, no need to get back to their offices from lunch. Tom again sat at the counter, again reading the newspaper from a nearby town – safer than scribbling in a notebook, much safer than pulling out a recorders or computers or PDA, his second day here. He would do nothing to appear to be a threat or a puzzle. And he would try his damnedest to make it appear that he was reading the newspaper, as he chewed on the chance appearance of Cale's partner on his walk that morning...

He determined that this "leisurely" lunch break, over the lean newspaper, would last only forty minutes after the arrival of his sandwich. If he got lucky again, maybe by overhearing something interesting, all the better, but he doubted if he'd be as lucky as that morning, stumbling onto the woman he'd seen last night. Teacher or parent? _Is there any chance at all that Eyes Only is actually a parent, too?_

Butler smiled his order to the matronly woman behind the counter, then opened the paper to lay the front page across the counter top before him, contemplating this new thought now, too. _A good reminder that there are still many unanswered questions about Logan Cale and Eyes Only_, he counseled himself, _and a better reminder to let the story write itself._ He had nearly succumbed to the beginner's mistake of making the story fit his theory, rather than merely using theory as a springboard for finding the truth. He _knew_ better, and would not forget it again, he vowed...

Not even when his luck kept reeling in such great prizes...

As he read, Butler was aware, without looking up completely, that the door had swung open. A customer, on his way out the door, started only part way through before he paused and stepped aside, holding the door open. "Heya, Rob," the man said affably.

"Hey, Mike – thanks." The voice was soft, and filled with the same, unhurried sound he'd heard from the others here. But Butler knew the voice as well as he knew his own, the voice of the man who'd inspired him years before to sneak into his father's office in city hall to obtain inside information for Eyes Only, the same man who made him realize that he wanted to write, to investigate, to tell the world what happened behind closed doors to give everyone, not just privileged types like his father, the straight information about those running the show...

Tom gritted his teeth, took a deep breath and reminded himself what a reporter did. _Listen. Get facts, get information; jettison the theories. He's a man. A great man, but just a man. No preconceptions anymore..._

Butler looked up, casually, and saw him before dropping his eyes casually back to his paper: _Robert Eastman, formerly Logan Cale. Start from there... _

"...bout time you showed up."

Butler listened intently to the conversation materializing behind him, as Cale made his way on into the café, and searched his memory for who he'd seen in his casual look around as he came in. Harder, because it was busier today than it had ever been, but he did remember that there had been one table where a man sat alone – waiting for someone? And now that Tom thought about it, he'd noted without noting that there was no chair in the space, opposite...

The voice had been affable, welcoming, despite the words, and Cale's voice in return was amused. "I finally found the short in Mrs. Keller's toaster oven," he announced. "How could I stop before I got it fixed and gave her a call?"

The other man chuckled, "you should have tried it out. You could have brought samples..."

Butler thought back: if he had placed Cale's voice correctly, he _did_ go to the table with the chair missing ... and the man who had been waiting there was muscular, dark skinned ... and bald...


	4. Four

**DISCLAIMER: Dark Angel borrowed; as always, no profits realized. **

**A/N: Sorry to have slowed a bit, but here's another bit to lead into a (US) 3-day holiday weekend, FFN's planned Sunday power-down, and our first post-Katrina trip to New Orleans for food and spending. _Laissez le bon temps rouler encore!_**

**Thanks to everyone reading, with an extra thank you to all who have stopped by to leave their comments. They are very much appreciated. This story was pretty well plotted out in its entirety prior to posting (at least in my head) but yet has still been shaded by some of the reactions left here! As always, all thoughts and opinions are welcome, with my thanks.**

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_**Asylum**_

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"You think I'd call her before I tried it out? I didn't want to let her down – she thinks I'm an electronics wizard now. First her lamp, then this," Cale laughed, "she claims three different people told her it couldn't be fixed."

"Well, I've thought you were an electronics wizard since you souped up the gain on our dish," the other man admitted. "Of course, you could have mentioned a long time ago you could fix the reception."

Butler did all he could to focus on the voices, through the laughter and plates clattering around him, as the voice he knew so well, and that of the man with him, were being swallowed into the other sounds of the busy diner. _Fixing toasters? Boosting TV reception? Is that what the great Eyes Only is doing now, playing town handyman here in 'Mayberry?' Is that what Logan Cale is 'investigating' these days?_ Tom recognized that his reaction was one of frustration, and that frustration at what Cale was doing with his life was not a 'neutral reporter's' reaction – but at the moment he didn't care. _What a waste ... and a disappointment..._

"Hey, I'm an electronics wizard, not a mind reader. You never said you were having a problem." The voice of his hero, talking about simple, homely things ... and sounding happy about it. Tom suddenly had a flash of memory from the night before – the look of peace on the man's face ... and the thought he'd himself had then, that it was well-earned, after all he'd given, all he'd done...

_Focus. Just– listen. If you have to judge, damn it, do it later, not now. This conversation is an unexpected stroke of luck, a gift. Don't waste it pouting._

The sound of the two, as they were talking, spoke of a familiar, easy friendship that Tom would not have supposed Eyes Only would have had the time or freedom to develop. _So maybe, despite all my study of the man, despite years of catching his hacks and reading his articles, I don't know him as well as I thought I did. Another reminder_, he noted.

The men still spoke comfortably, but their voices had dropped a bit from their bantered greeting to more conversational tones, and as the noise of the restaurant ebbed and flowed around him, Tom missed much of what was being said. He heard references to a clinic and soon thereafter, a hospital; mention was made of dinner and cooking out. He could hear a bit more when Cale became enthusiastic about some property at the lake, just as the restaurant crowd was thinning out, making eavesdropping easier, diners grudgingly heading back home to yard work or home repair or an afternoon swim...

"You know it's a great house," Cale was saying, "and we've been on the lake, what, eight months now? It's perfect out there, so quiet and peaceful. And we haven't lost power or water even once. The mail is like clockwork. Besides – you can join Linda for her morning runs."

There was a soft snort. "If I could talk her into making 'morning' start more like 5:30 or 6:00, and not 4:00 a.m. Even the Navy doesn't usually start that early." There was a moment's pause, and the conceded, "We did find the owners, though..."

"Really? Do they want to sell?" Cale's voice was animated, clearly pleased, the sound of a good man to have as a friend, sincere and interested ... Tom found himself wondering about what he'd discovered here. Not the man he'd expected at all. How did this third role fit with the two he'd been investigating? And were there more personas to him, beyond this? _Or is this the real man behind the mask and the by-lines...?_

"I get the feeling they'd given up hope of selling it and now that they've found someone who wants it, they're trying to decide how far to jack up the price – or whether this means other buyers will be along soon, too."

"So get one of the real estate people here to give them the facts of life – I don't think anyone would tell them that was a safe gamble yet. Besides ... if that one doesn't work out, there are others..."

"Yeah, but you know how badly Sandra wants _that_ house..."

_**Sandra**. _Tom sat up a bit straighter._ Sandra, as in the principal I just met? Working with the woman who was at Cale's last night? So these four are a set? Or, rather -- _he reminded himself not to assume._** Were** these four a set? Was this 'coincidence' the result of small town acquaintances, or did Eyes Only bring a posse with him?_

_... and if he did ... could it mean anything? _

"Woman's got good taste." There was a moment's pause before Cale added, "I think our offer on the place next door was accepted."

"That place just to the south of yours? You made an offer on it?"

"I figure it would be perfect to build out as an office for me, a training room we could both use, and a studio for Linda." Cale's voice was softening a little, again making it hard to hear. "I found a place that will ship a wheel out here. I'm going to go ahead and order one and surprise her with it – her work is just getting more amazing all the time, and ... I think she'd do a lot more if she had her own wheel, at home. Her time at the school is pretty limited, even as generous as they've been to let her use theirs after hours."

"She really has a talent for it," the man agreed. "And she could still take things in to school to fire them, couldn't she?"

"Probably, but I'll talk with Sandra about that, or with the art teacher at the high school." _The voice sounds as familiar as ever_, Butler marveled, _even discussing a gift for his beloved rather than corruption in city government._ "Especially if we get the place next door, we'd have plenty of room to build a kiln outside, if it's something she wanted to do often enough to have one. I just thought I ought to wait and get her vote on that..."

There was a pause, and the other man said, more quietly, "she's really taken to being here, you know? It suits her – it seems as if she can finally relax and let herself be happy."

"I know..." Eyes Only's voice took on a wistful note as it dropped a little more. "I was always worried about her the most..."

"Like that's news," came the gentle snort. "No matter the situation, she's gonna be first in your book. Nothing wrong with that – you're first in hers."

"Yeah, how'd I manage that?" Butler could almost hear the smile through the pause in conversation, as Cale seemed to reflect on the thought. "This place_ has_ been great for her." Tom heard a soft, amazed laugh, and Cale continued, "I don't know, she was so acclimated to city life, I just couldn't imagine that she could really enjoy it here, so completely. If you'd told me two years ago Sandra would make her a teacher's aide and she'd thrive on it ... And then, the whole pottery thing..."

"Maybe she's finally enjoying a part of life she missed in her childhood – and enjoying the chance to share it with the kids at school. Not so much time for tumbling and story time in a circle when she was growing up. And certainly no time for art or being creative."

"And she's as good at that all of that as everything else she tries." There was a deep sigh, then Cale resumed, "I'm just glad that it makes her so happy. It was a lot to ask, for her to leave everyone behind, but she came out here with me, no hesitation ... It just makes it all the better that it's worked out for _every_one." There was another pause, and Cale suddenly asked, "Look – the house – it's just because the owner's stalling on whether or not he wants to sell, right? Not because there's any hold up with a loan, or ..."

"Nothing like that," Cale's friend assured him. "Just a stubborn owner."

"Because ... you know... if anything like that becomes an issue..."

'_The sound of a good man to have as a friend, sincere and interested,'_ Tom's earlier thoughts came back to him. _The sound of a man who would put his own interests after those of his friends... or after those of the weak and voiceless ... _he vowed to remember._ ... the sound of a man he ought to admire, not condemn ..._

"It won't." There was a moment of quiet, then the voice continued, "but thank you."

"You know I mean it..."

Butler glanced at his watch. _Damn – I've already been here for over fifty minutes, but how can I walk out on this? Who knows if something might be said? _ He felt as if he'd wasted the first part of this conversation, more worried about his own reaction to Eyes Only's retirement than the man he'd come to discover. The men seemed engaged enough in their discussion that they hadn't noticed him – and they wouldn't know how long he'd been there before they arrived. Others in the diner, though, might be a different story...

... and just as if she'd read his mind, the stocky waitress ambled up to offer, "Honey, was there something else you wanted? I would have asked sooner but usually you just eat and go..."

Caught without a ready excuse to stay, still trying to catch the others' conversation while thinking of what he could say to the woman, he stammered, "Uh, no, I ..." Tom glanced around, needing some pretense, and suddenly saw, "... Pie." He relaxed a little, looking back up to her. "Pie," he repeated, affecting a boyish smile. "I ... I've been trying to make my cash stretch by not getting the extras, but ... I've been craving pie since I saw you had it there, homemade, my first time here..."

He tried to keep his eyes on the waitress as he heard the man with Cale prod him a little. _Save the good stuff 'til the waitress leaves_, he pleaded with them silently...

The waitress' look dissolved into a wide, motherly smile. "Tell you what," she nodded to him. "You pay for the pie and you can have all the coffee with it you can drink– unless you'd rather have a glass of milk..."

"Coffee would be great," he relaxed. "Thank you." He watched her amble off to get the coffee pot and a heavy white mug as he honed back in on the voices behind him.

"You know you'd better have that bike of yours done before we move out there – we need all four of us if we're going to do "foursome" rides out around the lakes. Or you could come along on those morning runs you wanted me to do with Linda..."

The waitress brought his pie, already topping off his coffee, and Tom managed to consider for a moment the generosity and openness of the people here as he went back to his eavesdropping, assuming he had discovered yet another reason Eyes Only might have been lured away from civilization by this place – a world apart from the vicious predators and greedy opportunists he'd spent several years pursuing...

"I'm gonna keep up with you two?" Cale asked.

"Sure, on the bike you would. Look..." The voice sobered a bit, spoke more intently. "It would be good to up your cardio work – without the team you don't get the workouts you used to get. I know you're doing all the things you can at home, but you know as well as I do that your choices are a lot more limited off your feet. The bike will be good to raise your pulse rate and keep it working at a more challenging level for an extended period of time, the way you did pounding up and down the court."

"I know, mom..." Despite the sarcasm, Cale's voice carried a sudden bit of recalcitrance. "But I _am_ working out on the glider, just as you ordered..."

"Uh-huh." The response carried skepticism. "And, probably about as well as can be expected, for how much you hate it." There was a pause, maybe as the words were allowed to have their effect, before the man continued, "besides, the bike will get you outside again – and it might not be as glaring a reminder as the glider is that you're not playing ball."

_So two people in his life to look out for Eyes Only, then?_ Given how powerfully he'd been affected by all aspects of this story since he'd arrived, Tom wasn't too surprised to find that the idea was comforting. Someone to look out for Logan Cale, the way he looked out for millions, back in the day...

A sigh, then Cale admitted ruefully, "I suppose if I want to finish putting it together I'll just need to bring it home." Again, he seemed to laugh softly in some surprise at his circumstances. "At first I didn't have all that much to do in the shop, so was getting more of it done. But over the past few weeks I have more and more people bringing me things ..." He paused, chuckling, "I think after I fixed a couple computers and that old radio Chet found, word got out – now the weekend entertainment around here is to go dig in the attic to find something to bring in that's un-fixable, and take bets to see how long it will be before I give up."

The man with him chuckled, and said, "Mr. Papasian says you're the best assistant he's ever had."

"He wanted to give me a raise," Cale admitted, sounding guilty. "Just like it was when he first started insisting that he pay me, when he caught on that I didn't keep coming back just to borrow his tools. This time I finally told him I couldn't really take more than he was already paying, that I'd lose my disability benefits if I got over a certain amount a month ..."

"Hmm – not bad." His friend approved the apparent deception. "You do know that your filling in for him is a good thing, right? He really needed to dial it back, and he's doing a lot better. His blood pressure was terrible before, and he couldn't find anyone to help him with all the repairs, even if he could find someone to keep the shop open. Maybe the work isn't quite as flashy as you're used to..." The pause seemed to be filled with some reaction; Tom heard nothing from Cale but the other man's vocal change seemed to be in response to something. "Look... you're doing a good thing. Even if you do get some weird thrill out of finding shorts in toaster ovens..."

Cale finally grudged him a chuckle. "Well ...speaking of which ... I'd better get back. Mrs. Keller is beside herself planning what she'll make in it first – I'd better be there when she comes to get it."

"Yeah, I'd better get back too." Tom heard a chair scrape as the man with Cale stood, and soon the pair was heading toward the cash register, moving onto Tom's line of sight. "We're getting together tonight?"

"Yeah, I think Sandra and Linda were planning something." Cale handed over the money to his waitress, waving off the other man as he opened his wallet. "I got it."

"No, man, you don't need..."

"Hey, 'electronic wizard,' remember? Mr. Papasian's raise?" From the corner of his eye, Tom could see Cale grin up at his friend.

"Thanks." There seemed to be more than just a lunch in that word. "What time are you closing up this afternoon?"

Cale glanced at his watch. "Oh, 3:30, 4:00 ... Linda was going to go over to the high school and use their wheel for a bit once they've finished all the planting ... she'll probably come get me when she's done. What about you?"

"6:00, I hope. It's still summer as far as sprains and cuts and stitches go." As they began making their way out of the café, Butler followed their words while he still could.

Cale smiled. "Well, whatever's planned, we can let you catch your breath before we get going. Just let us know when's a good time..."

Butler could see they men still spoke for another few moments before parting ways and heading in opposite directions up the block...

And Tom suddenly slumped on his stool, expended, finding he'd held himself in tense attention the entire time they'd been there. _Now what?_ Butler asked himself. _Was Eyes Only really in retirement, content in fixing broken appliances and relaxing with a buddy, the picture of small town life? _

_Sure – and still helping those around him: the repair shop owner, the offer to fund his friend's home? _Tom had a sudden moment of clarity.

_Eyes Only hadn't retired – he'd just scaled back. **Way** back..._

...and as Tom left a few extra bills as a tip and made his way to the cash register, he thought he just might be finding his way toward more of a balance, to write his story.

...or at least recognize that Eyes Only was merely an idea, a symbol, and that Logan Cale was a complex, generous, once-beleaguered man – _a great man. A man who'd found himself a gentle, kind community and a nubile young potter with whom to share it... Is that so hard to accept? You admit he deserves it. Having any opinion about it – worrying about 'accepting' his choices or not -- is you taking his retirement personally – something you have no right to do. _

And as he stepped out of the café into the afternoon sun, Butler paused momentarily, looking around at the town, and decided he could only go with the flow from here on out. Turning to head back to the hotel to dictate some fast notes before he forgot any of the conversation he'd just heard, he finally chuckled to himself, _all I know is that if I found a nubile young potter that beautiful, who looked at me that way ... I don't think I'd ever want to look at civilization again..._

A half an hour later, Tom stood at his hotel room window, overlooking the picturesque street, notes dictated and options open. Only Day Two ... was he ready to bring matters to a head? Was it too rash to approach Cale now? There was no rush, was there?

_No ... but today is Saturday_. Tomorrow being Sunday, he was willing to bet all he had that in such a small community, local businesses would be closed, as they had been for generations ... and, at that very moment, he knew right where he could find Cale, where he'd have him relatively captive and probably, for the most part, alone... who knew when he would have a better moment for his initial approach? _Enough excuse for a rush, after all_, he rationalized, straightening a little. And with a private smile, he realized he was grounded enough to see the story through. It might throw him another few emotional moments – but this story was his to write, whatever it became...

His excitement was undeniable now, and he'd almost forgotten the anger and disappointment that he'd felt amid all the reactions he'd had since he'd arrived. He was only a block away from Logan Cale, maybe was the only person to have found where he'd gone. Would Cale talk to him? Was there any hope that he _wouldn't_ be angry, being found?

_...was there any chance at all he might know some of **my** work?_

He had to ease his way in, speak a little first, get a sense of how to tell Cale who he was, why he was there. Butler looked around the room for something, anything, that he could take over to have fixed, something to get him in the door and Cale talking to him, so he could see if things felt right to tell him who he was and why he was here...

... and his eyes fell on the desk...


	5. Five

**DISCLAIMER: Dark Angel borrowed; as always, no profits realized. **

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_**Asylum**_

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In less than five minutes, Butler was downstairs at the front desk.

"Someone said there's a repair shop here in town – Mr. Papasian's, isn't it? Do you think it would be open today?" Tom asked the desk clerk-owner, offering his glasses in his outstretched palm as if they were evidence. "I finally broke the thing holding the lens in, there ... and I noticed that the optical shop isn't open again 'til next week." Butler had brought along a pair of glasses as back-up to his contact lenses – a pair that used a nylon line along the bottom of each lens to hold it in place. Once he'd decided he could get along without his glasses for a few days if needed, it took Tom only a couple minutes to pry away the cord from the frame and stretch it until it snapped...

The woman nodded. "I'm sure it is. Robert should be there for a while. He usually stays until at least 4:00 on Saturday." She verified for Tom which storefront was the one he wanted, and gave the glasses another quick look. "He'll be able to fix you up."

"Good – thanks." Walking out the door, Tom stepped onto the porch and down the steps to the sidewalk. _Breathe,_ he berated himself. _You're acting as if this is your first story. And, yeah, you want to convince Logan Cale you're worthy of his trust, that you have the chops to write about his work? Go in and giggle like a thirteen year old fan-girl. Hyperventilate while you're at it; that'll impress him..._

Self-directed sarcasm reminding himself to get himself together, Butler stopped on the sidewalk in front of the hotel's picket fence, fumbling the glasses and loose lens into his case to buy him a couple moments, now that he'd stepped out in plain sight. _A big story? Check. A personal hero, one who inspired the very job you're doing now? Check; check. Do-able? Check. And if you admired him even only half as much as much as you do, would you still be the best one to do this story justice?_

_...no question._

And with that, a small smile of anticipation started to grow...

He had walked the block and a half back toward the town center, where the old-fashioned storefront, its name painted on the large front window declaring "Papasian's Repair," sat only a couple doors down from the diner they'd each left so recently. As he approached, Tom could see his subject clearly, sitting at a sort of desk not far from the counter, engrossed in the device he held in one hand as he tinkered on it with the other. Tom forced himself to keep his pace steady, not to let Cale's peripheral vision catch him slowing or hesitating as he neared – but Butler's pulse quickened a bit to see it as he neared, in a sudden, attitude-smacking hope: _that's no toaster oven he's working on ... it's the memory core from a state of the art, high power satellite remote feed unit like they use for remote-location communication and TV transmissions ..._

_...which could be used, if he understood the basics, with something so pedestrian as a TV satellite dish, rewired by someone who knew how, for sophisticated long-distance communication and remote computer access..._

Tom tried to swallow the huge grin that threatened his face at the realization._ No guarantee that he's using it for Eyes Only work, or even that it's his ..._ But just the possibility gave him a surge of anticipation which yet again threatened to rock his professional balance. He gripped the door handle, bit his lip. _Showtime,_ he breathed to himself...

As he entered the shop, the green eyes he'd seen in countless hacks lifted to meet his, full of amiable curiosity. "Hey," Cale offered easily. "What can I do for you?"

Butler noticed that as he spoke, Cale kept his eyes focused directly on his own, while lowering the memory core onto the desktop, his hand unobtrusively blocking much of it, casually. _Not a gismo that many around here would recognize_, Tom thought, _and he's banking on that. But just in case I might..._

He stepped up to the counter. "People around here say that if it can be fixed, you can fix it," Tom began with an easy grin.

The man's green eyes relaxed slightly, twinkling behind his own small lenses, and his perfect teeth flashed as he smiled. "I only wish that were true. But I get lucky sometimes," he admitted as he grabbed the towel on the desktop to wipe off his hands, dropped it – deftly and smoothly covering the memory core as he did – to grip his wheel rims, and came toward the counter. "Whatcha got?"

"My glasses." Butler affected a rueful laugh, pulling out the case and opening it. "I broke the nylon band that holds the lens in ... and I'm told the only optician in town isn't _back_ in town 'til Wednesday."

Cale smiled again and nodded sagely, apparently not the first time he'd heard that. "You'd be surprised how many people break their glasses on the days he's not open. Most of them seem to wind up here." He reached out and took the glasses, looked at them briefly and lay them on his thigh, dropping his hands back on his wheel rims to back up. "It won't take a minute." Pivoting toward a work bench opposite the desk, he pulled out a spool of heavy gauge fishing line, small wire cutters, matches and a candle. As Tom watched, Cale lit the candle, cut a length of line, and threaded it through one side of the lens frame. Leaning forward toward the flame, to melt the line's end he'd just pushed through the opening, he warned, "this won't be a permanent fix, and you'll want to be careful with them, taking them on and off." He gently tapped the melted end with his finger, melted it again and repeated the action, effectively creating a thickened plug of plastic that would hold the line in place, finally blowing on the result until it was hardened to his satisfaction. "But it will do until Dr. Carroll comes back – if you're in town that long." The green eyes lifted to him, half in question, half in challenge, before he looked back to his work– and before someone unsuspecting would have noticed.

But Tom caught the look and, spurred by his subject's challenge, asked "how long have you had this place?"

"Oh, it's not mine." The man who had been Eyes Only picked up the lens to nestle them into the frame, easing the line in the lens' groove as if he'd been puttering in a small town shop like this for years. "But the owner is elderly, and his health..." Logan shrugged as he worked, melting a plug on the other end to finish off the replacement band. "I'm able to spare a few extra hours every day, to help him out."

Pulse picking up again, the challenge having gone to his head, Tom licked his lips and dared, "Ah, well ... that helps explain why a Yale grad is out here in the middle of nowhere, playing Mr. Fix-it."

As he expected, "Mr. Fix-it" glanced up again quickly, wariness replacing the easy-going look of moments before. After pausing a beat to assess, Cale tried quietly, "why would you think I'm a Yale grad?"

Butler looked at his subject levelly. The wariness he'd seen had softened slightly to include a look of some inevitability, as if Cale had assumed all along that this was only a matter of time ... _he isn't going to admit anything, but the Yale crack is too pointed to ignore – and too direct to avoid. Cale certainly knows he's been discovered._ Tom felt an odd feeling of sadness to see, even this early stage, what he knew to be Cale's belief that this was the beginning of the end of his life here ... _But no going back now... _

"The same reason I think you're Logan Cale, and that this is where you came when you decided to leave Eyes Only to the people printing that weekly you started, once you were outed – and the ones still making hacks for you. Let's face it, Mr. Cale – you haven't worked too hard to change your appearance..."

The eyes glanced away for a moment as Cale considered what was just said – or maybe how to respond – then drew a centering breath. "Eyes Only may be a recognizable name and picture, but not all that many people would recognize _me_," he began. "And even if Eyes Only hacks were picked up this far from Seattle, television isn't really the center of people's existence out here. That, and the time difference putting the hacks on later than most people are watching anyhow, the likelihood of those few people who might know something about Eyes Only actually recognizing me..." He shrugged, then looked into Butler's eyes, intently. "So ... you've found me, and I've been honest with you." Cale sat back in his chair, appraising him. "Your turn – who are you, and why are you here?"

Butler suppressed a smile. Anyone would have questions ... but he'd been certain that early on, this subject, more than anyone he'd interviewed before, would try to be the interviewer rather than the interviewed. He'd been right– and it had come within the first three minutes of revealing his identity. "My name is Tom Butler. I work for..."

"The _Post-Intelligencer_. I remember the name," Cale said, non-committal.

Butler hoped like crazy his subject wouldn't see how flattered he felt that Cale knew his name. _Don't blow it by acting like an amateur,_ he scolded himself.

"...and if you've done your homework you'll know that I didn't want to be found..."

"I have." Butler returned immediately, "and I've learned enough to know that if you had really wanted to disappear, you'd've known exactly how to do it. You wouldn't become an active part of the community where you'd ended up. You wouldn't be the center of attention again, this time by fixing everything in town that had ever stopped working. You'd get lost in a city like New York or LA – you'd lay low and not do anything that would catch anyone's eye. You would have changed your appearance..."

"...so because I didn't dye my hair and have reconstructive surgery, and actually showed my face around once in a while, you figure that gives you a right to come force me back into a world I tried to leave behind?" Angry now, Cale's eyes flashed as he spoke too quickly, looking hard into Butler's eyes, without the measured consideration of his earlier words. But once spoken, he seemed to reconsider, dropping his glare as something pulled at his thoughts. In another moment he spoke again, still looking away, his voice now flat. "I did my bit to try to fix what was broken, and got only so far." It sounded more like a rehearsed excuse than honest explanation, until he murmured, a bitter note now in his voice, "It's someone else's turn for a while."

"You're out of it, completely, then?"

At the question, Cale's eyes lifted again to his, a hardness to them that Butler could believe came from years of battling the corrupt, those in power, those who preyed on the weak. "What is it you want, exactly, Mr. Butler?"

"What would you want, if you were me?" Tom heard himself saying, before he could think, "writing for a paper in a town where Eyes Only made his way into millions of homes and workplaces, cleaned up government and brought down crime? A town where Eyes Only ends up being the fair-haired heir to one of the wealthiest families in the region, seriously injured in the fight to right all those wrongs? What would you want to know from the man who started all that, lived through it – and then left it all behind?"

Cale smirked. "So the P-I's become a tabloid since I left? Well, I'm disappointed – I'd think there ought to still be a news story or two around Seattle to be had, for a_ real_ reporter." Were the sniping words and caustic tone intended to embarrass Butler away from the story? Or to suggest he wasn't worth the attention? From all Tom had learned about this complex man, he knew Cale wouldn't relish being dissected for a story ...

'I don't think you believe the paper's changed," Tom said sincerely. 'Look – I've been doing the research and background on you and Eyes Only for months now – and I want to do your story. One way or another I'm going to write _something _– you were an important part of the West Coast and to just disappear, the way you did – I have to wonder if you didn't actually _want_ the attention," he baited. "Pretty dramatic exit, otherwise..."

But Cale didn't bite. _He's done it all and knows the tricks. Stop trying to outsmart him; it's hopeless..._

Tom sighed. "Mr. Cale – I would like to give you a chance to tell your side..."

"You forget that I had the chance while I was in Seattle – above-ground _and_ under."

_And to stop thinking all together is even worse..._

"Look..." Butler repeated, suddenly feeling as if he had no control at all in the situation. "I'm staying at the hotel. I'll be here another ... three days" he decided, off the cuff. "Think about it, and if you're willing to talk to me, please call me..."

The famous green eyes held his for long moments, weighing. "You know I've been trying to remain undiscovered. Why would I want to help you advertise where I am now?"

Tom picked up the glasses that Cale had laid on the counter in front of him and slipped them back into their case, and laid a twenty on the counter. "Because maybe by talking to me, you can convince me _not_ to advertise it." He stuck his case in his pocket. "It's truly an honor, Mr. Cale. I hope you decide to call."

...and in one of the best acting jobs of his career, Tom managed to walk confidently, unhurriedly, out the shop door without looking back...

The waiting was hell.

Just like everything else about this story, Tom Butler felt more anxious waiting for Eyes Only's response to his request for an interview than that of anyone else about whom he'd written, even those more widely known or controversial.

He'd returned to the hotel to make notes; he'd paced in his room then went out to walk around another part of town, snapping photos of whatever he could think might relate to a cable site. He'd grabbed his bike to ride out of town, pedaling at top speed along county roads to burn off nervous energy; he rode back again nearly as fast. He made it to dinner time and went to the diner to eat; he returned to the hotel to pace.

And when he'd not heard anything by nightfall, he suddenly was caught by a whim: what if Cale wanted his privacy enough to flee from him, from town, and start all over at yet another town? It wasn't unheard of; and Cale seemed to crave his anonymity enough to do it.

_...besides,_ he justified._ ...I'll go crazy just waiting here..._

...so for the second time in a little more than twenty four hours, Butler hopped on his bike to ride out to the lake, to see what was going on at Eyes Only's cabin retreat ...

This time he took a longer way around, not taking any chances that he'd be spotted now that Cale knew he was made. Butler left the bike several yards back, and, as he had before, moved silently into the overgrown grasses where he could peer into Cale's home...

Soft lights were on inside. With some adjustment in his position Tom could see into the large side windows, and found Cale crossing to a dining table, lifting dinner dishes into his lap and, presumably, returning them to the kitchen. The table had been set for two, but so far, he saw no one else. _What happened to the plans the four of them had made earlier, for the evening?_ He watched as Cale cleared the table and wiped it down, his movements somehow different than before. Butler wasn't sure what made him think that; he watched carefully for more – and on the third trip realized Cale was moving more slowly, almost heavily. Was he ill? Injured? Something seemed to be wrong...

_... something wrong?_ Tom snorted. _Like just learning that your secret hide out had been found, maybe?_

Tom felt his guilt prickle. Yet again he was made keenly aware of the irony: never before had his journalistic righteousness been such an intense intrusion upon his subject's privacy – and here, his subject was himself a journalist. Butler's earlier reliance on the fact that, as a journalist himself, Cale ought to understand his actions more than any other subject he'd pursued, was less comforting the longer he was there. _'The public has a right to know...' _ It was a mantra he'd learned in his first weeks working at the P-I after school as a high school kid, then in his journalism classes, and then back at the paper as a real staffer. Never had his resolve been even tarnished.

_...but never has a story been so personal..._

He'd do the story and do it well, but once it was put to bed, he'd think seriously about ever taking on a story again that was so close, about someone so important to him or a topic so significant in his life...

_...or maybe I just need a good, long vacation ..._ he thought, wryly...

But just as quickly as Butler's private little joke brought a smile to his lips it faded, as he saw that the woman he'd seen there the night before – the potter, the teacher's aide – _Linda_ – had come into the room, carrying generous duffle packed and thrown over her shoulder ...

... there was something seriously wrong in the image. The couple so full of love the night before, their expressions so joyful and happy, had changed, the sorrow clear even at this distance. And in growing regret, Tom watched the scene play out like a silent movie before him...

With dancer-like grace, the lovely woman crossed the room toward Cale, swinging the bag to the floor and, with a sad, aching gesture, reached out for his hand. As he took hers in his, Cale spoke to her warmly, his expression was supportive and certain as he watched her brows draw in response. She suddenly gestured to him and spoke quickly, seeming to implore his agreement, but he shook his head sadly, never losing the smile for her or dropping his eyes from hers. At this, the beautiful face tipped away; Cale crooned to her again, his words moving her to turn quickly and seek the comfort of his lap, his arms ... he folded her in close and stroked her hair; through the powerful lens Tom could see that Cale nuzzled her hair and rocked her, gently, seeming to speak in comfort ...

... Butler sat back, camera lowering, involuntarily. _"Linda" is leaving. Neither of them want this..._ The good-bye scene made it clear it wasn't planned ... and was tearing both up inside...

_... this is **my** doing ...?_

He scrambled to look for any evidence that it wasn't permanent. _The bag isn't huge_, he reasoned, _it couldn't carry more than two or three days' clothing at the most._ And not much other than clothing and the basics could be carried easily on her back. He fought any other explanation, insisting to himself that she was leaving for only a short time, yet felt a sickening twist in his gut to see how hungry her kisses were, how Cale raised his hand to her cheek and gently let his thumb trace away some dampness that spilled down across her lips...

Unable to tear his eyes away, Butler watched as the woman slowly, sadly, untangled from Cale's lap. Leaning in once again for a long, tearful, needy kiss, she finally stood, let her fingers trace along his as they dropped their hands, and the woman lifted her duffle to withdraw. Cale managed the calm, supportive look for her until she silently stole out of the house. In a hushed breeze Butler could barely follow, he could see that she quickly walked a bicycle out toward the road then, lightly, mounted it, turning to ride back toward town...

...and back inside the cottage, Cale finally slumped, unmoving for long minutes just where she had left him. Hating to see what he'd find, Butler slowly lifted the lens to his face and saw the heartbreak there, the loneliness ...

For whatever reason they felt it necessary, for whatever length of time, the parting Tom had just witnessed clearly broke both hearts involved, and clearly was not something either wanted. Whether she was leaving, whether they were mourning the loss of their quiet, small-town life, Tom's gut told him just as clearly it was the result of his appearance. He had never before that moment had such powerful questions about the consequences of his work...

_... is this what journalists do, ruin their subjects' lives for the sake of trumpeting their stories to the world? Was it right to reward their lives and successes, the source of what made them newsworthy, by interfering and even endangering the safety of those around them? Was it reasonable to intrude on their privacy for the sake of others' "right" to know?_

_...is this how a journalist celebrates the life of the person most influential on his own life choices? Is this how a journalist offers his thanks?_

...and with none of his questions resolved, Butler's guilt-ridden indictment was broken by the slow, heavy of movement of Eyes Only toward the other room, and he watched as painfully, achingly, Logan Cale came out onto his deck, alone, to sit under the vast, clear sky, and stare in mournful yearning out at the dark, star-filled night surrounding him...


	6. Six

**DISCLAIMER: Dark Angel borrowed; as always, no profits realized. **

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_**Asylum**_

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The call came just after 2:00. No amenities, no wasted words – only the familiar voice on the other end of the line saying tersely, "I'm at the shop. It's closed today, so there'll be no interruptions." The line suddenly clicked, and the call cut off...

Tom moved purposefully, grabbing his small recorder, a notepad, a couple pens – and at the door he paused only a moment, distancing himself from all the emotions and reactions that had arisen in him during his pursuit of this story. _Anyone finds out all of what's been going on in your head over this one, your career's down the toilet,_ he reminded himself. _You still have time to do this right. So don't blow it..._ He pulled the door open, strode brusquely into the hall to quickly jog down the stairs and out the door. He covered the block and a half back to the store quickly, thinking about the past hours but at a distance now, more analytical now than he'd been since his arrival ...

The night had been a long one, his earlier ebullience smacked out of him by the scene he'd witnessed the evening before, as he watched the toll his actions were taking on two innocent people. Initially, he'd tried denying his involvement in causing the pain he'd seen, and his first reaction was ridicule: he was just a reporter; it was just a story. Not the end of the world. It was only disrupting their lives because they _let_ it. _Why did it have to become such a big deal?_

He'd heard the self-defense in his mental tone immediately. Soon thereafter came the bleating of his denial: _How could I have **known** it would be so disruptive?_ _Logan Cale had always been a public figure, his whole life had been in the public eye, in the papers: a family frequently in the news, a journalist publishing under by-lines and anxious to do so, like every other young writer, hacks breaking into the homes of millions..._

_...behind a disguise..._ his conscience had reminded him.

_Maybe so. But still – public. _Tom's inner voice could be stubborn in self-defense mode._ First rule of journalism – one that Cale certainly knew – there were different rules for public figures. Part of the territory..._

Tom remembered the look of inevitability Cale had worn – he'd _expected_ to be found. Given that Butler could have been an assassin, or blackmailer, or thief, wasn't this better? Tom had tried to comfort himself with the self-righteous idea that Cale ought to have been _happy_ it was he who'd shown up, and not one of those others – until it dawned on him: _he doesn't know for sure you are who you **say** you are ... he doesn't know you haven't been bought by one of the ones who want to hurt him ... and he knows that if you can find him, he – and Linda – **can** be found. He doesn't know how this will end for him or for her; he doesn't know that they can be safe here anymore – and last night he took steps to protect the woman he loved, at least until he could know more ... _

Another long night without much sleep had finally brought Butler back to the reality of who he was, why he was there, what he'd done wrong – and what he needed to do. He'd gone past the hero worship to get sucked into over-identification with his subject – as if _he'd_ been the one to flee, so many stories left to write, so many of the weak still needing a champion ... and now as if the woman of _his_ dreams had left, not Cale's ...

No longer. He was here for a story and if there was one to be had, he knew he'd find it. He'd trusted his instincts before. Now, they might not be quite as trustworthy – but instinct was all he had, at the moment. No more preconceptions; no more hero worship; no more assumptions – he was here to listen. And as Butler came to the locked storefront and rapped gently on the glass door, he drew one more steadying breath as he watched Cale come close to unlock the deadbolt and back up from the entrance.

_Remember who you are,_ Tom breathed to himself, one last reminder, _and why you're here..._

He stepped through the door. Once inside, he watched as, unspeaking, Cale moved back to the doorway, closing the door and flipping the lock back in place. The "closed" sign remained in view but rattled a little against the glass as the door closed. With only a brief glance up at his visitor, Cale pushed past Tom and said quietly, "there's a back room..."

Butler started to follow his subject, wondering briefly if even in this quaint town Cale had bodyguards or operatives, if following him into the back room of a locked shop was as inadvisable here as it would have been back in Seattle. Tom had taken risks before, in more than a dozen different cities; the story, as always, was worth the risk ... but upon his entry, behind Cale, into a small, cluttered, _empty_ 'kitchen' with a table, chairs, sink and battered hotplate, Tom relaxed a little...

Cale nodded toward a chair and went over to the sink, lifting a faded mug from the drainer. "Coffee?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah. Thanks." Butler remained standing as waited for the cup, feeling a flush of surprise for the hospitality, and wondered if it meant Cale thought they'd be there a while. The pot was full, he noted...

Cale poured the brew into the mug and turned, offering it to the reporter. "Sweetener and creamer are over there," he nodded toward the cabinet.

"Black's fine." He came close to take the cup, and saw that there was the barest amusement in Cale's eyes.

"Ah, right. You're from Seattle." He dropped his eyes before Tom could register the comment and make that human contact which might have made this easier. Awkward for the moment, Butler muttered his thanks and went to sit as Cale poured a mug for himself, oversized at the bottom and narrow at the top, and balanced it between his thighs as he crossed the short distance to the table. Lifting the mug to the tabletop, Cale drew a breath, but said nothing, waiting.

_Get him talking, but step back_, Tom's gut told him. _Don't let him manipulate **you**..._ "Thank you for calling." Tom said simply. _Let **him** talk..._

Cale took a sip of his coffee in the silence ... another ... then finally put his mug back down. At last drawing another breath – and with a sideways glance at the reporter, Cale said, "Look – before anything else is said – I'd like to ask one favor." He stared into his coffee, considering what he had to say. "If you're going to out me, at least let me have the chance to tell people here before the story runs. They've welcomed me here. I'd like to be able to explain why I wasn't honest with them, that I meant them no harm or hurt, but that I was just trying to protect a lot of people – myself included." Cale looked back up, weighing his reaction, Tom thought. "I'd like to tell them myself that I lied about who I was. They deserve that much."

"Who did you say you were?" Tom asked simply.

Cale stared back into his mug. "Robert Eastman. Formerly, a TV news cameraman, injured on the job – couldn't exactly keep my job filming news stories out on the street – even if I could get places in the chair, I couldn't maneuver it _and_ film with a portable videocam at the same time. A stab at studio filming didn't work out either, because those cameras are designed for someone standing, who could move with them." Cale shrugged. "So, the injury ends a career as a film journalist."

_...not surprising that Cale would work out his identity to such detail, including a career that would be unwieldy from a wheelchair, but one about which he knew enough to sound convincing, if questioned ... _Butler mused. _Effective..._

"So, Robert's out of work and ends up leaving the city and his old life behind," Cale continued, softening again, voicing even now a gentle surprise at how things worked out, "..and stumbles into a town full of people willing to welcome him, broken or not." He looked back up to Butler, and reiterated, "I owe them all, here. They never questioned me, not for a minute. I'd forgotten what that sort of life was like, trusting people at their word." He sighed. "I don't want to think that what I did tarnished anyone's trust here. Maybe I can make them understand, if I have a chance to try."

Cale didn't demand a promise in response, as if aware how hollow it might be, coming from someone he'd never met and who had no reason to agree. He simply stated his request and hoped it would be honored. Butler considered the man before him and jettisoned any lingering preconceptions he might have had. His subjects' stories were never simple, really – and with a complex man like Logan Cale, how could things have been as black and white as he'd anticipated? _Listen and learn_, he reminded himself.

Cale had fallen quiet, saying nothing more for several moments. It dawned on Tom suddenly that Cale knew the drill better than he did and was expecting a formulaic interview. A sudden smile threatened to intrude on his serious journalistic expression and he fought it back – he'd let Cale lead this one, after all. The way past the walls Eyes Only had erected was by _not_ interviewing him, and letting him stew about it. _Listen and learn, for sure_, he thought. He simply waited...

Cale drained his coffee and looked over at Butler. "Well, let's have it," Cale frowned a little now in uncertainty at the silence, slightly more animated than before, but still guarded. He dared a look back into Butler's eyes as he pressed, "you wanted an interview. Here I am."

"Why did you agree to this?"

Cale's eyes flashed. "Did I have a choice? You said it yourself; if I didn't meet with you you'd publish it all, this place, where to find me – and anything else you may have uncovered here," his voice carried the tension borne of his not knowing what lay ahead. "I have no illusions that by meeting with you I could have any control over what you print – but it's a safe bet that I was more likely to have some input if I met with you than if I didn't."

Tom narrowed his eyes, thinking. "What would you have me leave out?"

Cale snorted softly, grabbing his cup to move back toward the coffee pot. _A safe retreat_, Butler recognized. His subject was feeling threatened. "You're giving me a choice?" Cale's sarcasm crackled. He stared at the coffee as he poured.

"I'm asking what you'd have me leave out," Tom repeated, evenly.

Cale's back was still to him, but Butler could see the shoulders drop a little. After a moment, Cale again, carefully, snuggled the mug between his thighs and returned to the table, not looking at his inquisitor. He lifted the mug, took another sip, and finally shrugged, almost to himself, "all of it." He paused, then met Butler's eyes, more centered now. "Ideally? Anything that would point to where I am now, or identify who my family and friends are, back in Seattle ... or here."

"So _that's_ why you left," Tom baited his subject, knowing this wasn't quite the answer, to pull the correct response from him. "You wanted privacy."

"That wasn't why," Cale muttered immediately, as Butler had anticipated. "Did you ever read comic books, Mr. Butler?" Despite his newly found confidence with the interview, Tom blinked at the unexpected turn of the man's words, and Cale smiled in some irony to see it. "Do you know why Superman and Spiderman wore costumes and had secret identities?" He paused long enough to see Butler, drawn in, shake his head slightly, and went on to explain, "it's because Lex Luthor and the Goblin knew early on that superpowers have one, gaping weakness – not in the superhero, but in those around him – in Lois Lane ... or MJ... or even Aunt May." Cale's eyes registered when he saw that his analogy had been understood. "Doing the sort of investigation that Eyes Only does, you learn quickly that the pros find it far less effective to threaten or hurt _you_ ... but the people you care about, that's a whole different story..." His expression carried the strain of unimaginable threats. "It wasn't all that safe for people around me _before _word go out. But after..." His voice and eyes softened in memory, going back to those times. "Suddenly, if Eyes Only was a target, _I_ was, personally – and anyone important to me was, too. I have family still there, in Seattle, and friends. My cousin and his wife are there; they've worked harder than anyone can imagine over the past few years to resurrect the family business. It would be wrong to let them be driven away." Cale paused again, considering what could have been. "And I couldn't let them be threatened or compromised because of me."

"Was it only the threats?" Tom asked, "or did being identified as Eyes Only have other effects as well?" Something Cale had said, how he was the focus of the threats and not just Eyes Only, made him suspect there was more ...

The haunted smirk in response was revealing. "Before, it used to be that people contacted Eyes Only when they needed help to fight those in power. When they spoke to _me_ they thought I was just another soldier. We'd talk about what to do for the good of the fight, pass information or plans, do what we needed to do. But then word got out. By that time, we'd done a lot, but the fight wasn't over, not by a long shot. I did try to keep things going, just as they'd been. But everything had changed – people weren't contacting Eyes Only anymore, they were contacting_ me -- _for money, usually – and would get angry if I didn't just hand it over, right then, as much as they wanted..." His eyes focused on a time past and his voice softened, remembering, the thought clearly still painful. "I even tried, at first, tried giving them money if that was what they needed. But then more came asking, and when I tried giving them only some of what they asked for, not all of it – well, that just resulted in resentment, or anger..." He wavered a moment, then looked back up to Butler. "Eyes Only wasn't getting a tenth of the calls or requests for help that Logan Cale was. There was no such thing as underground for me anymore, and the informants or operatives with whom I worked most closely were under growing scrutiny, too." Cale sighed, sounding defeated even still. "It pretty well made the work impossible, as things were."

"So you bugged out – left it to the Informant Net?"

"And your _better_ idea would have been to do _what_?" Cale's eyebrows shot up in question as he demanded a response. When Tom didn't flinch, his subject scrutinized him, and asked, "How long have you been a writer, Mr. Butler? Ten years? More?" he began. "Have you ever _been_ the story? Imagine trying to do your job when there's no anonymity in who you are and what you do – like this; you wouldn't have been able to come to town and pass yourself off as a college kid. You wouldn't have been able to get into the candid conversations you had with the people around here." Cale frowned, the memory sharp. "It all changed – it wasn't about the work anymore, but about me... there were death threats ... bomb threats ... kidnaping threats ... All to demand money or hacks. What work we did do, it was never enough. There were always more demands... more threats... more people wanting money." His voice fell to nearly a whisper, the frustration and anger still fresh. "My staying in Seattle was hurting Eyes Only's cause," he admitted. "What else could I have done?"

But any glib reply Tom might have had was lost immediately, as the sound of a hand pounding loudly and insistently on the storefront's door caused them both to jump ...


	7. Seven

**DISCLAIMER: Dark Angel borrowed; as always, no profits realized. **

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_**Asylum**_

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The pounding suddenly paused long enough that each man caught his breath again, but resumed immediately with another tatoo of insistent knocking. Cale looked at Butler, accusatively, and Tom blinked, shaking his head. "Hey, I don't know anyone here but you," he said. "So I take it you weren't expecting anyone, either?"

There was an immediate shift in the green eyes at that. Logan Cale had skills, but his eyes appeared to be too expressive for their own good, and Tom thought he saw a suspicion in them that Cale knew who was there. "No, I wasn't," he said grimly, and flipped off the brakes of his chair to head out toward the racket. "I'll see what they want..."

There was no way Butler was going to miss this, and he was on his feet and behind the wheelchair before Cale had crossed over the threshold to leave the kitchen. Following Eyes Only as he moved through the larger storage room quietly and on into the shop, Butler peered with him out across the counter and toward the door. There, they both saw the form of a large, powerful looking man peering in through the glass and waving as he saw them appear.

The bald one. With the crummy satellite reception ...

Butler couldn't see Cale's face from where he stood behind him, but saw the slight sag of his shoulders and even thought he heard a little snort of consternation. _What had I thought the other day, about Eyes Only having friends here, looking out for him? Guess I was right on the money on that one. And Cale seems not only surprised by this visit, but even slightly irritated. _

_...and so why would friends looking out for him be bothersome?_

_...maybe because he didn't want anyone to know about his little meeting, here, _Butler's inner debate continued_. But clearly Linda knew – right? Or was even **she** out of the loop? _

_No, she fit the description of the woman seen with Cale in Seattle, and they were clearly a committed couple, not just a brief new fling. So it made sense that she knew him out there, and made the move here, with him. If so, she probably knew why he'd left Seattle ... and is likely, then, to know he'd been found. And even though she left, just as Cale wanted her to, maybe Linda passed on the word to the big guy, so someone could check up on him ..._

Tom stood by as Cale went over to unlock the door and open it for the waiting man, who flashed a wide, apologetic smile to them both. _This ought to be good,_ thought Butler. He moved around to the side, unobtrusively, just enough that he could watch both men's expressions as they spoke.

"Hey, man, I'm really sorry to interrupt," he offered, generally, to the both of them, "but Robert, I saw your car out back and was hoping you were done with that receiver I dropped off last week. Any chance it's ready?"

Cale seemed to hesitate only slightly, but fell into the patter soon enough. "Oh... no, I'm sorry; I got backed up on some other things. Tomorrow, though, or Tuesday for sure, alright?"

"Sure thing." The man's manner was untroubled, pleasant. _Not bad_, Tom thought. "Look, I wouldn't have bothered you but I saw your car and, you know... Just hoped I might have gotten lucky."

Butler's mind continued to run ahead, adding this moment now to his earlier curiosity about bodyguards and operatives and Eyes Only out here, without either sort around: _Cale wasn't set up for an intrusion such as this, was he?_ Tom found himself wondering. _No listening devices or high tech security watching Eyes Only, it seems, or the big man wouldn't have had to come in person._ And this guy was a doctor or something, not Cale's employee; at lunch the day before he talked about getting back to "the clinic" for stitches and sprained ankles, and had lectured Cale about getting his exercise ...

It started to dawn on Butler that this was the first time Cale had been approached as Eyes Only, in all this time since leaving Seattle – his request that he be allowed to spring the news of his real identity on the community made it likely, and the good-bye scene Tom had witnessed certainly appeared too painful to be a familiar event. _They had acclimated and had started taking on faith that this life **was** real and possible for them,_ Tom began to realize. _This was the first time anyone had brought Cale's old life back to him, after he'd begun to believe – after he **and Linda **began to believe – that they really had left Eyes Only behind, along with all that went with it. They'd have no way to know what I planned for the story, what I wanted from them – or how many ways I could hurt them, or up-end their lives here. No wonder my appearance was such a blow... _

But Cale was nodding to his "customer" now, managing a small smile as well to reassure his friend. "Your stereo's next in line," he promised. "I'll have it for you by Tuesday at the latest."

Whether it was a legitimate speculation of when a stereo he was repairing would be done, or just a response to placate the guy, Butler wasn't sure. Whichever it was, the man seemed satisfied. "That's great, whenever you can get to it. Sorry again to intrude..." he said to Tom, giving him another good look, before including Cale in his apology.

"No problem. See you later..." Cale's voice was soft, and his movements subdued as he again moved to the door, locking it, then turned to assess what his visitor may have thought of it all. Looking at Butler only briefly, he then turned away again to make his way back toward kitchen. "Sorry," he murmured, not giving away what he decided. "I assume you want to get back to it..."

But Butler didn't move, speaking to the retreating back. "No one else has recognized you – or followed you out here before now, have they?"

Cale stopped, not turning around ... and hesitated only a moment before pushing forward again. "No," he acknowledged, as he kept moving.

Butler shook himself to follow, watching from behind as Cale returned to the table in the kitchen, the interruption – or maybe his question, just now – seeming to further darken the other's spirit. Cale's reaction to his friend's appearance, very likely a part of his continued uncertainty about the interview's outcome, combined with his description of life after he'd been identified, bringing Tom another wave of now-familiar guilt: how selfish it was to assume that Eyes Only could continue, without considering the toll it might be taking on the man behind the mask...

But still, he had a job to do. Anxious to get Cale talking again, Tom sat down at the table and asked a question that picked up where they'd left off – and was at the heart of his pursuit. His own voice quieter now too, Tom asked, "So ... had it not been for your identity being revealed – and all the problems that brought for you – you'd still be at it, being Eyes Only?"

Cale considered the question. Despite his attempts to remain neutral, and not give anything away in his reactions, his expression unconsciously communicated how much he'd hated leaving his work undone. "Probably," he minimized, looking down at the table.

"That makes me think that you still may be working." This time Cale didn't react – nor did he look up. "From here, in the heartland, even..." Tom suggested. And again, tried just waiting...

But the response was different this time. Looking up to meet Butler's eyes, Cale said, "You'll understand why I can't answer that." His voice was still soft, but strong now, purposeful. "If I _am_ doing any work at all, it would be compromised as certainly as Eyes Only's was, if it's revealed. And you'll expect me to deny it either way, so there's little point in my saying I'm not, even if it's the truth." His green eyes drilled into Butler's now, intense again. "So there is no possible way I can respond in a way satisfactory to us both."

Tom considered the response for the moment, then nodded, a small smile of concession, almost sheepish, appearing suddenly. "I see your point."

Cale's eyes glimmered with a tiny spark of hope to see it. _He's seen I might be reasonable,_ Tom knew, and knew at that moment that what he chose to write – how he chose to publicize all he'd found – meant the world to the man seated across from him. _How sad, that it's come to this for him,_ Tom realized. _All he's done, all he's given ... and all he wants now is a chance for a normal, quiet life with the woman he loves... _

Butler sat forward, sensing that the change in Cale's response might bring the interview to a different level. "In the six years between your first broadcast and your last, you singlehandedly changed the face of Seattle politics..." he offered.

"... not singlehandedly," Cale interrupted, low. "Never singlehandedly. The information always had to come from somewhere..."

"So did Eyes Only – and that was all you, your creation. The first stories were yours, ones you investigated, just as you did for your stories in the P-I, and the stories you did for the other papers and journals..." He watched the green eyes as they watched _him_, warily. "Later on, you had a wider net of informants, and the stories came to you far more often than you had to go looking, but you can't tell me your hand wasn't in every story you ran, and in the investigation and confirmation of what was found..." At Cale's eventual, grudging nod, Butler asked, "what gave you the idea? Why 'Eyes Only?'"

Cale looked away and shrugged, again minimizing his efforts. "There wasn't a newspaper or television station that wasn't being censored, either by those in power buying the outlet – or their editors – or by post-hoc destruction of those that weren't for sale..."

"Like firebombing their offices, like the Pacific Free Press?" Butler tried.

He got a nod in return. "That, or even something as simple as the stealing and destroying all copies of an edition, as they're being loaded on trucks for distribution," Cale said. "So the best medium, then, was something they couldn't steal and destroy. That left TV or radio or web broadcasts, and more people had TV sets blaring around them than radios or computers. Just the process of elimination," Eyes Only shrugged.

"Well, no one else thought of it," Butler actually encouraged.

And he was surprised – and heartened – to see Cale suddenly relax and chuckle in response, his voice carrying a wry twist of irony. "Me and my big ideas..." he muttered, finally allowing a smile, more centered now. "If I'd just gone into the family business..." The rueful words were said with an easy, humored grin...

Butler met Cale's grin with his own, and as it lingered, he observed, "you don't strike me as the type to agonize too much over the road not taken."

"Always too busy trying to negotiate the one I chose." The grin softened back to a quiet smirk, as Cale's eyes dropped away to the table top.

"Can't have been easy," Tom quieted, still probing. He considered for another moment, in silence, then asked, "Along with everything else – being on the most wanted lists for both City Hall and the black market syndicate, for a start – you were shot..." Butler watched his subject, carefully. "What was life like for you, after sustaining a spinal cord injury as damaging as yours?"

Cale pursed his lips at the question, not expecting it. Surprisingly, he appeared more uncomfortable with it than the questions posed earlier about Eyes Only. He finally drew a breath, sighed it out – and shook his head. "I'm not the one to ask about living with an injury like this – my circumstances were unusual. My life has been much easier and healthier than many others with the same injury, because I've had enough money to get anything I needed to make things easier – medical attention, therapy, assistive devices. That makes all the difference." He shrugged. "Before the Pulse, too, it was a lot easier – laws mandated access to all public buildings and working elevators inside, dependable electricity to keep them running..." Logan's eyes came back to Tom's, a new thought appearing to develop as he spoke. "Those laws were among the first things jettisoned after the Pulse, and the loss of that easier access, coupled with all the 'regular' hardships so many have faced since then..." He trailed, then focused back on Butler, leaning forward and eyes challenging him. "_There's_ a story, Tom. Talk to some of the guys back in Seattle. I can give you names, a whole cross section of guys on my basketball team and the teams we played. Talk with _them_ about what it's like getting by, even in the supposed recovery out there. All those guys are able, resourceful – and none is asking for a hand-out – but once in a while they could use a break." Cale's eyes took on a gleam as suddenly, the grin found its way back. "And I suspect a push toward some of those pre-Pulse amenities would be a good start ... as in, a push by a story in the P-I..." He watched Butler for his reaction, urging his interest and agreement. "Much more interesting than a underground writer who cut out a year and a half ago."

Impressed yet again by the man before him, all that he'd done, and his continuing urge to fix the world around him without thought for himself, Butler listened, then nodded, quiet himself now. "I'll look into it," he promised, and after another moment, managed to regroup. "What did you think of the grassroots efforts to get you elected as mayor – or governor?"

Cale actually laughed at that, softly, "I appreciated the thought, but I knew they weren't serious," his eyes fell away again, Cale seemingly slightly self-conscious, even now, at the memory.

"I think they were – certainly many were. If you could do that much from behind the mask, it stands to reason you could have done so much more actually aboveground, in charge of things..."

"I think it would have been the same as everything else – everyone wanting something, nothing is ever enough – whatever I might have been able to do would have been far too little. Better to let those who know something about government power and how to use it wisely and honestly be the ones to serve."

"It would have been one for the books." Butler shook his head. "I would have voted for you."

Cale considered the man across from him, sizing him up in the silence now between them, and offered a soft smile of concession. "I believe you would have." Not dropping his gaze, Cale went on to admit, "I remember you, you know. We didn't meet, but ... I remember your helping us out, getting the files from your father's office so we could trace payments made from the mayor's office to nonexistent mental health clinics – stealing the money that should have gone to providing services to thousands who desperately needed them. " The compelling eyes carried appreciation, even now. "And you were able to get another several files along the way, as I recall."

"Yeah." In spite of himself, Butler felt his ears warm with the flush of pride he felt, hearing that his contributions had been remembered, unable to say more in the moment...

"Thank you, for your help." Cale said simply, directly.

Tom allowed himself a memory, a personal observation. "Getting those files to help Eyes Only meant more to me than maybe anything I've ever done, or anything I've written or investigated since. I was so worried that my father was to blame for so much of what was going on ..." He looked back to Cale. "I'm the one who should thank you – it gave me a chance to see that he wasn't the worst of them..."

"Not by a long shot. His worst sin was to remain silent while the crooks around him tied the city up for a while. He wasn't the only one."

"He could have spoken up..."

"A lot of them who did went missing, suddenly, and your dad had a family to consider." Eyes Only reminded him. "And once we knew what his files contained ... well, he was able to help, too." Cale smiled softly.

Butler looked at his subject in some surprise – and wonder – and appreciation. "Thank you," he said again, softly ... and then asked, suddenly feeling a frustration with Cale for agreeing to his interview, an irritation almost as strong as the one he felt with himself for intruding on his privacy, "Why did you agree to talk with me, man? Why are you letting me do this?"

Cale's eyes first registered an initial surprise at his outburst, but immediate recognition replaced it. "I told you – if there was going to be a story, it was the only way I had any hope of having any say about its contents..."

"That's not it..." Butler knew, and at the expression he saw in response, he knew he'd been right. Cale wavered, looked away as memories were recalled yet again, and he finally shrugged, a haunted smile on his lips.

"I did the same thing, once, went looking for a journalist who disappeared, and demanded to know why he'd left the cause behind. It didn't turn out so well. Maybe ... I consider this some sort of pay-back..."

"Nathan Herrero," Butler said slowly, remembering. Cale didn't have to answer, his expression said it all for him. "_You_ found him?"

Cale nodded. "I accused him of walking away from the responsibility he had, as a journalist, to fight the corruption around him. A ... friend ... suggested I was making his leaving more about _me,_ and not what was good for Herrero and his family."

Butler's face burned; he knew he'd been made. _He's still a journalist, and sees that I have been a rank amateur in how I've handled myself in this..._

To his credit, though, Cale simply added, in a soft voice, "You know as well as I do there are always going to be people who do the right thing and people who don't, people who serve the cause that you think is right and people who work against it. I tried for a long time to force everyone else to work for what I thought was the greater good. I finally caught on that I was merely one man, and that I could do my part, and my part only. Working with like-minded others can make a difference, and can sometimes become a greater whole than the sum of the independent parts. But when it's all said and done, it's a lot simpler, and a lot less complex, than we all want to believe." Cale was watching him, gauging his reaction, as he said quietly, "when you take your shoes off at night to crawl into bed, the questions you've got to ask yourself are 'what have I done today to make the world a better place?' ...and 'what have I done to make it worse – and if worse, what can I do tomorrow to make it right?'"

Butler gulped, all distance gone now. "How can you still think that?" he breathed, "with all that's happened to you, all you've seen?"

"_Because_ of all that's happened to me... and all I've seen." There was a smile of contentment again on his features, and Cale said simply, "it's a wide world out there – and always, there's hope. You wouldn't be a journalist if you didn't believe that spreading the word will enlighten and empower people who read your work, and that there are still people out there who care enough to want to know the truth. You know that telling the truth about those in power will temper their abuse of it – why else do the corrupt try to censor those of us who are committed to telling the people what's really happening?" Cale's green eyes bored deeply into Butler's. "And as long as you have hope – you can trust that there is good in the world, and greatness in everyone around you. Once you realize that ... you can just kick back and enjoy the ride..."

Butler was silent for several moments, mouth dry, feeling overwhelmed with the depth – and simplicity – of the man's observations. He licked his lips, and said, hesitantly, "Eyes Only ... can't be allowed to die..." His voice sounded emotional in his ears, needy. "There's still so much to be done..."

"You can be part of it."

Butler looked up quickly, searching for his meaning. When Cale said nothing else, he asked, "You could ... give me a name, or a number to contact? To help?"

Cale shook his head and said evenly, "no, but if you want, I can have someone get in touch with you. They'll know how to contact you, through the P-I if need be."

Butler nodded absently, overwhelmed. "Okay." He licked his lips again, and shrugged, "look, I can't do this; I can't do a story about your leaving and what's happened, and risk all that you have, here..."

"Then do the story you think is right."

"But," Tom sputtered, "you wanted to avoid the story all togther; why would you say...?"

"Your paper knows you're here– and maybe even where you came. Your editor knows you're here; probably others do, too ... friends or family? You had to leave some trail about doing a story about Eyes Only, or me, or both. You've bitten off a good bit, Tom, and now you've got to chew it. Otherwise, enough people will suspect you found me and were bought off – or maybe even recruited, for those who know your history and your leanings. So it's better for both of us if you write _something._ What _that_ is..." Cale wavered, looking Tom directly in the eye, "I trust you to use your best judgment."

Butler, wrung dry, sat back, considering what had happened in the past few minutes. "I don't know that I trust my judgement anymore – not in this..."

"I do." Cale said immediately. "You've come through in the past for Eyes Only, and you're a talented writer. And, I appreciate your ... interest ... in letting me keep my life here intact. You have the skills to write a story around all that. And, while I still would rather there didn't have to be _any_ story ..." his eyes actually twinkled at that, "I trust that you'll manage one without giving too much away."

Butler barely trusted his voice, let alone his legs, but managed to stand, suddenly needing some distance, needing to find himself again after having lost his focus in the presence of this man he so admired. "I'll do everything in my power to justify your faith in me."

The smile was one he'd remember for a long time afterward, as Cale quietly offered his hand, even at his abrupt departure. "I know you will, Tom. I appreciate it."


	8. Eight

**DISCLAIMER: Dark Angel borrowed; as always, no profits realized. **

**A/N: My thanks to everyone who has stayed around for this, but a very special thanks is due to those of you reviewing this story, even more than usual. As explained in an A/N at the end, this story, told entirely from the point of view of a non-DA character, developed that way in response to some reviews. Reviews really do matter! They very much affected this story, and made it more fun in the long run. So my thanks once again, and thanks for reading. _S_**

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_**Asylum**_

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He'd started the story a dozen times that night, each start trailing off down one path or another that he found he didn't want to go. He tried writing what he had intended to write originally, what now seemed eons ago, knowing it wouldn't be published but hoping for a start on the story that would. He gave up a dozen times more, each time hearing Cale's voice echoing that he'd "bitten off a mouthful" and now _had_ to make something of what he'd put in motion... He wrote whatever came into his head and tried to cut and paste from there...

...he went out for a walk to clear his head. He went back for a jog when the walk didn't help.

Nothing helped. Nothing at all let him see it – not until, in the buzzing exhaustion of a 2:00 a.m., caffeine riddled flashback, he remembered something from Journalism 201, said by an ancient, stooped professor to a room full of other young hopefuls like him: _Every editorial needs a theme, an overall objective. It's not just the point you want to make, but your purpose in making it; not just your opinion, but your strategy, both overt and between the lines, to bring your readers to your point of view. An editorial is written about a subject that matters. It will be all the better if it matters to **you**. When you write ... you should never inflate or misrepresent your facts, but with tools like emphasis or word choice, you can present them in a way that leaves your interpretation of the situation as the only one worth considering. And, that, my friends, is what they call persuasive writing..._

Butler could hear it again as clearly as if it happened today. _Great, for an editorial. But not for a news feature. _And he'd always scoffed at human interest writing, calling it tabloid treacle; Carter had opined that was precisely what he was chasing with the Logan Cale/Eyes Only story, and at the time he'd bristled with offense. But Carter had been right all along, about his obsession, about the story... and maybe about the kind of story this would be...

_...so create your **own** sort of piece._ Carter would give him free rein in that. With no pretense of being a news report, it could be anything he wanted it to be. It _could_ be an opinion piece. A tribute? Or an exposé? Maybe there _was_ a place for 'human interest,' if done effectively, and if Tom Butler was going to put his name on such a story, now was the time, if it would serve his purpose. He could do it, and would do it well.

It could work. It could be just what he needed. It could certainly be _persuasive _...

Tom dropped back into the chair at the desk, cleared out most of what he had, and started writing, driven now. His objective? _Simple -- _

_Reveal Eyes Only. _

The truth about Eyes Only, as it was now.

He began to smile broadly as his fingers flew over the keyboard. _And I'm just the guy to do it... _

... several hours later, he woke with a start, splayed across the bed, as the phone in his room jangled. It was the hotel phone, he realized, not his cell. Fuzzy with sleep, he groped for it and croaked a response. "Butler," he managed. He glanced at the clock. _9 AM..._

"Mr. Butler? Oh, you _are_ there..." the woman's voice carried insincere surprise, telling him she knew full well he was still there. "Robert Eastman called for you this morning – you left your wallet at the shop."

He hadn't ... but he _had_, in yet another unheard-of break from journalistic form, e-mailed a copy of his story to Cale when he finished it about four hours earlier, before passing out in exhaustion across the quilted coverlet. _Shit_, he thought; "oh," he managed, suddenly wondering not only whether or not Cale approved of his story, but that he'd sent it to him at all ...

"He thought you'd want to know right away. He can't leave the shop to bring it by 'til noon, when Mr. Papasian comes in, but thought you might want it sooner. He'll be there all morning, he said, so if you wanted to stop by..."

"I will; thanks." Tom hung up, blearily crossing over to his laptop, sliding slowly into the desk chair as he began to read the story yet again. Would it sound the same in the unforgiving light of morning? Would it do what he hoped it would accomplish, and was it as well done as it could be? Would it have any effect at all? Would it change any lives, in Seattle? Or _here_...?

As he read, he wasn't as certain as he'd been the night before, when he'd been fueled by emotion and relief in finding a way to write the story he wanted. _But it's not bad_, he grudged ... _maybe even has a few moments..._ Another read, and he decided it would stand as it was. _At least for now,_ he bargained with himself. _And if Cale **did** read it, and has anything to say..._

He shut down his computer and headed toward the shower. _Cale must've read it, then – how could he not, given what all could come of it?– and now, apparently wanted to discuss it._

Butler suddenly entertained the idea of bolting, of getting out of town before he learned Cale's reaction; knew there was still time to do it. But now that he'd taken the unprecedented step of letting a subject see the story about himself before it was even published, he might as well go all the way and discuss it with him, if that was what _he_ wanted.

_... might as well..._ Tom's mind skipped – leapt – from thought to thought as he showered and shaved and hurried ... and dallied ... to get over to see Cale:

_Logan Cale read my story about him and wants to discuss it. Who wouldn't be nervous? _

_What the hell were you thinking anyway, sending him the story? Any chance at all that he **didn't** read it?_

_Logan Cale read my story about him and wants to discuss it. Doesn't change a thing..._

_I'm nearly packed; car's gassed up. I could get in the car and never look back..._

_You're a professional; so is he. You've been at this a while, almost as long as he has. Other than his wondering what the hell you were thinking, sending him the story, he might understand what you did, and why..._

..and nearly as exhausted after his inner battles as he'd been after his long sleepless hours the night before, Tom finally stepped out into the hall, pulled his door shut behind him silently, and slowly walked down the stairs to head out the front door...

This time, his walk from the hotel was slower, more "final:" where Tom had felt excitement before, finally getting to meet the subject of his story– his personal role model and hero – and, he'd believed then, to find answers to his questions, _this_ time there was sort of a fatalistic air about it all, his investigation done, the story written. Maybe he had sent the story to Cale seeking absolution; maybe he was stalling, so he could have an out to change it even now, knowing that the likelihood of _that_ was nil. Maybe he was just suffering the inevitable letdown after finishing this particular sprint, getting the race done and packing to go home...

He neared the storefront, swallowing the inner debate and looking for some focus for what he knew would be his last, in-person meeting with Cale. When he'd jumped into this story, he'd had no clue that it would be such an emotional ride for him. After years of knowing who he was and comfortable with his work, he'd discovered he was more emotional, and more easily manipulated by events, than a wet- behind- the- ears high school reporter. _Something else I 'learned' from Logan Cale,_ he realized belatedly, the thought twisting into his mind with a stab of irony as he crossed the street toward the little shop. _Guess I'd better remember to thank him for that little insight, too..._

Coming toward the shop door, Butler again saw Cale inside, alone in the shop, but this time further back near the far wall, hunkered over a frame that looked at first glance like a stripped down, three-wheeled go-cart.

_..the bike Cale's friend mentioned?_ He noted the assembly at the front of the cart, where it appeared that Cale was securing a bicycle-type axle mounted almost two feet above the base, with handgrips on the crankarms where the pedals would normally be, and was easing a bicycle chain from the assembly to the large, single wheel out in front. The back end seemed in place with two similar wheels and a slightly recumbent seat nestled between them. _The 'bicycle' he'd been too busy to finish, lately... _

...did it mean anything, that he was working to finish it _now_? _Would it mean anything to someone not as obsessed with his subject as I've been?_ Shaking off the thought, and gripping the door handle to face the music ... Tom let himself in the shop...

Cale looked up and, seeing Tom there, straightened from his work. "Hey," he said, once again noncommittal.

Butler nodded, mumbling his hello. "Is this a good time?' he tried.

Understanding, his subject nodded, grabbing a towel to quickly clean his hands. "We're alone," he assured Tom, moving forward, as Tom stood rooted near the door. "It's okay to talk here." He looked long at the writer, giving him the chance to speak first. When he didn't, Cale drew a breath, not dropping his gaze, and offered, "there's coffee..."

Tom wavered, but needed as much caffeine as he could get to make it though the day – and through this meeting. "Yeah, that would be great," he admitted.

Cale nodded, turning toward the kitchen as he had the day before. "C'mon back..." he said, not waiting to see if Tom was moving. Butler followed him silently, nervousness inexplicably taking him again. As he had the day before, Cale poured him a mug and offered it to the writer; he poured his own and crossed to the table, where, this time, a laptop computer stood opened, the screen turned away from Tom's view . After another moment of silence, Cale spoke. "I was pretty surprised that you sent me the article..."

"It hasn't been published – or even turned in yet..."

"I know." Butler looked up, not surprised to hear it, but wondering how even _he_ could know that. Cale considered him, and added, "I take it you don't make it a habit of doing that..."

Tim snorted, a sound of self-directed irritation. "No."

Cale nodded once at the response, at both the verbal and the non-verbal aspects of it. "Why now?"

So the journalist in _him_ was curious, too? "I don't know... I..." Tom stopped, thinking it over all again. "I think ... in the circumstances ... I wanted your trust, about what would be published. I know I up-ended things here and ... given how much I've learned from your articles, about how to write ... about the government and corruption and the need for a free press, from your hacks..."

"... from Eyes Only's hacks..." Cale's voice interrupted, gently, and Butler looked up to see the man's expression has softened, an appreciative look there now. "What you did, in your story – both what you said, and how you presented it all, between the lines ... it was good, Tom. And ... selfishly ... I am very appreciative of what you've done..."

"You did read it, then..." Butler breathed his relief. _And understood my purpose ... and my objective..._

"As if I wouldn't, " a soft snort accompanied Cale's quirky smile, the relief the man had felt after reading the story obvious. "On occasion, people I knew used to accuse me of being schizophrenic about Eyes Only, talking about 'his' work as if 'he' was a separate person. Tom, you were able to take that very idea ... and what I said yesterday about the change in things, once I was outed ... and used those ideas to invent a very convincing argument that Eyes Only outgrew Logan Cale long before I was outed, that it's thriving and growing now that it's rid of me, that it was headed that way before I left and is now continuing to develop quite healthily, even now." His smile took on a rueful quality as he added, "three years ago, if you'd somehow written the very same thing I'd've fought tooth and nail – at least in myself – to prove you were wrong, for fear that Eyes Only would somehow be taken away from me. But given what's happened since – this is the best thing that you could have done, to try and protect all that I have, here."

Relief flooded Butler, that Cale _got it _– and accepted it all in the way it had been meant. "I' m not naive enough to think that the story will turn everyone around, or that some of those who still want to find you will suddenly change their minds..." Butler minimized.

"It couldn't hurt," Cale shrugged. "Actually, I don't think I've ever appreciated being marginalized quite so much." His eyebrow lifted in humor at the irony. " And – hypothetically – were I trying to stay a part of things, even from here ... it would be easier, just being one of Eyes Only's nameless foot soldiers again."

_An offer, in trust,_ Tom realized, _to admit that much_ ... _there's so much in this man to admire, so much to emulate... _

Cale was quiet a moment, and his face became more serious, shifting into a look of sincere gratitude. "Whether or not it changes a thing, Tom – thank you for how you chose to do the story."

_And so much owed, for all he'd given_... "So you know..." Tom began, not looking at his subject at first, feeling as if he was still working to make right all the things he'd rattled loose by suddenly appearing in Cale's life. "Because I had information that you were using an assumed name, I knew you were trying to hide – and so, not knowing what I'd find, I _did_ take some precautions, in doing the story: no one but my editor, Ross Carter, knew that I was working on this story, and other than the few, unconnected hits on my research, I communicated with no one about what I was learning. No one but Carter knew where I've come. I drove out here, used cash for gas and food, slept in my car. The phone I've used to call Seattle has been a pre-pay disposable." He dared to look up and saw appreciation in the intelligent eyes. Barely stopping, he pressed on, "but in case anyone's found I was here, and might put two and two together to figure out where _you_ are from where I've been – when I leave tomorrow morning, I'm going back to Seattle the same way, same precautions. I've booked a flight into Edmonton, leaving right after I'm back, then after a couple days I'll 'follow a lead' to Yellowknife. I'll be there a few days, then return to Seattle. The story will run maybe a day or two after I'm back." He paused, and, finally running out of steam to look back to his mentor's face, shrugged, allowing a hopeful look. "All the good money's on your having gone to Canada anyway; why not take advantage of it?"

The expression he saw in return was one of clear surprise – and deep gratitude. Appearing rattled for a moment by what he'd just heard, Cale was silent ... then sipped at his coffee ... then nodded, cleared his throat, and offered, softly, "that's above and beyond..."

"And necessary, given this can of worms I opened. But you know – if I could find you, so can any number of others ..."

Cale nodded again, balance returning even with the more serious side of him appearing at the thought. "I know." He sighed, and admitted, "I think I allowed myself to forget that. Fourteen months without any sign at all of that life coming back to find us, and I'd started to think that maybe, _finally_, we'd gotten far enough away, and people had lost interest, grudges had been forgotten."

'_Us,' he finally said, _Butler noted_, not just 'I'_...

Cale continued, "So I owe you my thanks for that reminder as well – and I'm keenly aware of how lucky I am that it was you who came looking, and not someone who wants to get to me – or to someone close to me. A good warning that we'd gotten careless. We'll be ready next time."

Butler nodded, feeling drained. "Not a bad idea." The story was written, but as he'd told Cale, he had more to do to extract himself from this place and go on to Canada and back before the saga was done. And he had to polish off his cable-company routine too, and needed to be seen on the street at least this one last day... Still, Tom had one more question begging an answer, just to satisfy his own curiosity ... "Just ... one more thing, something I don't get..." Tom began. "I never would have figured you for a small town type – you spent all your life in Seattle, except for school; you went back to the city after college and suddenly, here ... you look as if you were made for this life." Tom asked for himself, not only about Cale, finding himself imagining his own future. "Are you really as happy here as you seem to be?"

Understanding crossed the man's features, and the look of real happiness Tom had seen before flickered again in his eyes. "Seattle is still home; it will always be home, and I never imagined living anywhere else, either – certainly nothing this rural." He smiled, "but this is home, too, now. It's home in a way Seattle never was for me, and could never be. I love Seattle... but I'm _happy_, here. I never really was, back there, not like this..." He paused. "Maybe it's just circumstances, and things there could have been as good as they are here, but..." He shrugged, "I suspect that it's more than just timing." He looked to the journalist, and raised an eyebrow. "Worth a try, when you're ready to pack it all in, Tom. It's a whole different world than we're used to..."

Butler looked at the eyes he'd felt he knew, all this time, and saw a man who had come through prosperity and pain, through the most fearsome times and who, at every turn, had acquitted himself honorably. He deserved any happiness he could find. "I'll remember that," he offered a wan smile of his own. Pressed by all the loose ends he needed to tie up before leaving, Tom stood, feeling a bit of regret that he had to leave. "Thanks for the coffee," he began, and, hesitantly, added, "and... thanks for everything. Everything you've given Seattle ... everything you've given me. I am deeply in your debt, Mr. Cale."

"Logan," the familiar voice urged quietly.

"Logan." Tom tried it out, still felt unworthy. "And because of that debt – I do owe you an apology, for this intrusion..."

"It's a story I would have done," Cale offered. "And as I told you, I did what you did once, and it ended a man's life ... but here, the story you've done may help, far more than you know."

"I hope so – it's the least I could do." He started to move, but hesitated to add, "and I promise you, that's the story that will run. Nothing to connect you to this place, to anyone, nothing to indicate that I even talked with you recently."

"You have our sincere thanks for that."

As he moved toward the hall, Tom glanced over to the open laptop, and saw that it displayed his e-mailed story, the last paragraphs showing there. Having read the words repeatedly after writing them, Tom could almost recite them with a quick handful of the words he saw in his glance toward the screen, on his way past:

_Like so many political or social movements, Eyes Only has become far more than only the acts of its founder, and much greater than the sum of its parts. Whatever Logan Cale may have done for the movement, or whatever role he played, is now a part of the historical archives. He is no longer Eyes Only, and Eyes Only has grown and thrived since his departure. All the speculation about where he's gone and why and what drove him miss the point, the point he himself understood well when he refused to answer the litany of questions thrown at him. He's said the reasons are personal and will stay that way. Those few who still seek him, still believe there is reason to do so, are merely feeding the gossip tabloids, which are willingly aided by government insiders who still hope to minimize the import of the movement. He has been gone for fourteen months and Eyes Only has thrived. Whether unkind or not, it may even be said that his abandonment of the project gave Eyes Only new life. And as soon as we all catch on to that, the sooner Eyes Only can really get to work._

_Whether it remains the private social force its been, or, as some have opined, is evolving in to a political action coalition or even, one day soon, a political party in its own right, it has blossomed beyond the handful of computers and cameras that brought it first to life. The offspring has left the nest and now soars on its own, well beyond the boundaries of the city or state, well beyond what one person or even a small handful of people can achieve. Eyes Only is still becoming all it can be, and is the hope for many of us who value a truly free voice in this world. Let's all work to let it be heard, unshackled by the past or the future._

_Peace. Out._

He walked through the storage area and crossed through the shop to the door, silently, Cale following on whispered tread. Hand on the doorknob, Butler paused to offer one last, heartfelt apology. "After all you've done – I'm sorry it's come to this –your having to leave Seattle, the way you were treated... the way you and I are so enthusiastic over minimizing your contributions. I know life isn't fair, and I'm glad to know that at least, out of all of this, you've found a life here, and your own peace. But..." he shrugged. "This time, still ... the balance is way off."

In response, Cale pursed his lips, thought for a moment... and a small smile again graced his features. "But things are what they are, and in all this you brought us a good reminder of what's been out there, and what can still pop up. We'll learn from that. But more than anything," the smile was genuine, "because of your story, what you decided to write – tonight I'll be going home, _here_ – to have dinner with my wife. And I want to thank you for that."

Suddenly emotional again, Tom could only nod. With a deep breath, he gulped, and cleared his throat. "It was a privilege, Logan." He opened the door and left, not looking back...

_**Epilogue:**_

One last time... Tom slipped into the bushes and weeds that had served to hide him on previous visits, for one, last look...

One last trip, just so he could return to Seattle with a better image in mind, one last return as the stalker, the Peeping Tom Butler, needing to see that he left the Cales – _the Eastmans_ – in the same condition he'd found them. If nothing else, if they just could have the happiness he'd seen that first evening here, they had hope ... they could have the life they deserved.

He peered out toward the quiet scene, stillness surrounding the home. _It wouldn't be hard to find peace here,_ he observed. _And once you were ready to leave city life, once and for all, a place like this might be just the place to escape..._

Tom leaned into the nest of sweet-smelling grasses, the warm afternoon and humming insects working on his sleep-deprived body to temp him into a doze... fighting sleep, he watched the house, watched the lake, and suspected he was the only human being presently within ten miles of the place... there was no guarantee that either of them would be there that evening; no guarantee that Linda was close enough to get back by this evening. But Cale had mentioned dinner at home, with his wife... and Butler prayed for a chance to see proof that they survived his blunders...

_If he could just see that their lives were intact,_ the insects murmured ... _It was the only thing he asked, for all his efforts,_ the grasses whispered ... and the birds agreed, _without it, he would never know if he'd harmed the man who had given him so much..._

...the sound of tires crunching on gravel awoke Tom from his stupor. Looking across the grassy lot with his camera, he saw Cale's vehicle pull up to the back of the house, Cale apparently alone inside. But before he could even open his door all the way, the back door slammed open, and the beautiful young woman – in a short, silken robe, her feet bare and hair still apparently damp from a shower–sprinted to the porch's edge, pausing only a moment to take in his appearance. In the blink of an eye she was down the ramp, launching herself into his arms at the open door, while he was still behind the wheel...

He held her close, his long fingers tangling in her hair... they kissed for long moments, as if quenching a thirst ... they finally broke apart, Cale grabbing his wheelchair out of the back, the woman fairly dancing as she waited, and almost knocking them both over as she bounced into his lap. The laughter carried to Tom's ears; the joy was back... and after more long moments of elated reunion out in the peaceful, dappled sunlight, Cale began to slowly, easily, move himself... and his bride... up the ramp into their home...

_ ... the end ..._

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**A/N:** As mentioned above, this story was directed in very large part by a few early reviews that commented on the fact that the story was all from the perspective of Tom Butler, an outsider. I had not originally intended it to be _only_ his perception for the entire story, but it seemed to be an interesting challenge, and allowed for a storyteller, Tom, who knew less about the characters than the readers, even though the readers don't know everything that is going on in the circumstances. It was a challenge to be limited to only one person's perceptions, and made my brain work a bit harder – and that made the story even that much more fun to do.

**All that to say, if you ever doubt the value of your reviews – please don't!** They often help the story take on unplanned direction...

Of course, that means that there are bits left on my files from others' perspectives – as in, the Max & Logan "goodbye" scene, info about where Max went ... what the others were doing while Logan met with Tom. These raise opportunities for the story to be rehashed from their POVs – Sandra, Bling, Logan, Max ... even the café waitress or Mr. Papasian.

...anyone curious? And if so, who should be next? And should we answer the pressing question: _has Logan really gone out and gotten himself a flannel shirt...?_

**Thanks to you all who stuck around...**

**_S_  
**


End file.
